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THE ANTHOLOGY 
OF ANOTHER TOWN 



VENTURES IN COMMON SENSE 

BY E. W. HOWE 
With an Introduction by H. L. Mencken 

" A man thoroughly American, ... he yet manages to 
get the method of the free spirit into his study of the 
phenomena that lie about him, and even into his exam- 
ination of the thing that he is himself. In him is the 
rare quality of honesty — a quality, in fact, so seldom 
encountered in American writing that it would be 
stretching the truth but little to say that it is never 
encountered at all." — H. L. Mencken. 

$1.75 at all bookshops 

ALFRED A. KNOPF 

220 West Forty-Second Street 

New York 



THE 
ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

By E. W. HOWE 




NEW YORK 
ALFRED- A-KNOPF 

1920 



COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY 
ALFRED A. KNOPF, Inc. 






-5 1320 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



©CI.A601384 



CONTENTS 



Doctor Gilkerson, 11 
Jim and Dan Ayres, 21 
George Coulter, 23 
Sammy Hemingway, 32 
Davis Straight, 39 
Sam Harris, 44 
Bart Wherry, 47 
Pilson Blair, 49 
Ben Barton, 50 
Lige Banta, 54 
Mary Mason, 58 
Uncle Jimmy Haskins, 60 
Gus Sanderson, 62 
Tom Harrison, 63 
Judge Terry, 64 
The Wittwer Boys, 65 
Aunt Mahala, 68 
Marie Taylor, 70 
Bill Hall, 72 
John Davis, 74 



CONTENTS 



Hon. Martin Holbrook, 75 
Ans Whitcomb, 76 
Mart Towne, 78 
Sarah Brownell, 79 
Tom Marsh, 80 
Jim Searles, 81 
Sandy McPherson, 83 
Joe Bush, 84 
Cleve Hunt, 86 
Michael Rafferty,87 
Joe Wells, 88 
Tom Harper, 89 
Asberry Morton, 90 
Ben Bradford, 99 
Pete Robidoux, 100 
Bill Harmon, 103 
Doc Robinson, 106 
Jim Shields, 107 
Ben Thompson, 108 
Jerry Shackelford, 109 
Cap. Hansen, 111 
Henry Wulf burger, 113 
George Pendleton, 114 
Colonel Andy Miller, 116 
Bud Moffett, 121 



CONTENTS 



Milt Sayer, 122 

Walt Williams, 128 

Belle Davison, 129 

Andrew Hackbarth, 130 

Joe Stevens, 133 

Gladys Hart, 136 

Mrs. Joe Buey, 139 

John Davis, 141 

Taylor Ward, 142 

Mary Ransom, 143 

Charley Grover, 144 

Thomas Lane Montgomery, 149 

Old George Bennett, 150 

Glen Barker, 152 

Harvey King, 154 

Vic Walker, 156 

George Coleman, 157 

Joe Ward, 158 

Emanuel Strong, 160 

Ed. Marsh, 161 

Mrs. Mark Thompson, 162 

W. T. Hawley, 163 

Lawyer Bailey, 164 

George Lawrence, 165 

Mrs. John Hart, 166 



CONTENTS 



George Hart, 167 
Old Mr. Neal, 168 
Bill Alvord, 169 
Martha Wendell, 170 
Chris Halleck, 171 
Joe Allen, 172 



THE ANTHOLOGY 
OF ANOTHER TOWN 



DOCTOR GILKERSON 

When I was a little boy, living on a farm, my father 
returned one evening from the country town where 
he had been several days, and announced that he had 
bought the weekly paper printed there. I had no 
idea what a printing office was like, but soon had op- 
portunity to find out, for the next morning I was taken 
to town, and turned over to the foreman, who was 
told to make a printer of me. 

The man who taught me the trade was an old-fash- 
ioned printer named Martin, who had a bed in the 
office, and who wrote stories for the New York Mer- 
cury, played the guitar, sang ballads, and took part 
in amateur theatricals. 

My brother Jim worked with me, and we worshipped 
Mr. Martin. He gave us little suppers in the office 
at night, when we had rare things to eat we had heard 
of, but never hoped to taste; including cove oysters 
with little round crackers, instead of the big square 
kind. At the conclusion of these suppers, Mr. Mar- 
tin told us stories. Usually we became so sleepy that 
he was compelled to drag us into his bed, and spend 
the night himself on a pallet on the floor. 

Among other things this wonderful man told us 
— 11 — 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

about was the circus; he had seen one, although there 
had never been one in the town where we lived. But 
one day, after Mr. Martin had gone away for good, 
and Jim and I were doing the mechanical work on the 
paper with the assistance of the editor, the advance 
agent of a circus came to town in a wagon; in those 
days circuses travelled overland, there being few rail- 
roads, and none at all in our section. 

We were tremendously excited, as Mr. Martin had 
said printers always received free tickets. Much to 
our dismay, however, father had a quarrel with the 
agent. Father was a preacher, and said circuses were 
immoral; therefore no picture of an elephant should 
appear in his paper. What was more, he said he 
would use his influence to keep people away from the 
circus man's demoralizing exhibition. 

It was a terrible blow, but father kept his word: 
he attacked the circus with as much violence as he 
attacked the institution of slavery, a question then 
prominent. So Jim and I looked at the bills, and 
wondered if we should be able to see the show. 

When circus day arrived, father told us we were 
to work all day, and not see the crowds, or the parade. 
The attack of the editor on the circus did not do it any 
harm ; indeed, early on the morning of circus day, the 
town was crowded with country people from many 
miles around. And every farmer who came into the 
printing office to pay his subscription, made jokes 

— 12 — 



DOCTOR GILKERSON 



with the editor, who was somewhat surly because his 
good advice had not been taken. It was the town's 
first circus, and we soon discovered that it was also 
the town's greatest crowd. Teams began arriving in 
the vacant lot back of the printing office at an early- 
hour; the horses were hurriedly unhitched, and the 
owners went away to see and mingle in the excite- 
ment. In the front office the editor was having an 
uncomfortable time with farmers who thought it a 
great joke on the paper that its abuse of the circus 
had brought an enormous crowd. 

While the editor was arguing angrily with a number 
of men about the iniquity of the circus, and the men 
were laughing merrily, I told Jim I intended to make 
a sneak, and see the circus, if I died for it. Jim was 
a good boy, and warned me not to, but when he saw I 
was determined, he accompanied me in the wild run 
we made for liberty. 

When we reached the street, we found the circus 
had not yet arrived, so we set out with a number of 
other boys to meet it. We knew it was to come in on 
The Falls road ; every boy knew that, somehow, so we 
travelled that way until we became suspicious, and 
turned back. Reaching town, tired and hungry, we 
found the circus had arrived by another road, and that 
the parade, and the afternoon performance, were 
over. 

We were hungry, but didn't dare go home, so we 
— 13 — 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

hunted up a woman we had known in the country, and 
she gave us something to eat. Then we started out 
to borrow money with which to attend the evening per- 
formance. But we didn't make any progress, so 
when the band struck up for the night show, we de- 
cided to crawl under the tent. It seemed easy, 
and I was about in when a man caught me by 
the heels, and pulled me out. While the circus 
man was cuffing me, I saw another circus man 
cuffing Jim, about twenty feet away; he had also 
failed. 

Then we met a man named McCurry, a member of 
my father's church; a good man who did not intend 
to witness the wicked performance, but who was never- 
theless walking around outside, to see the crowds, 
and hear the band. We appealed to him; we said we 
had run off, and would get a whipping, but that it 
would be terrible to get a beating, and not see the 
performance. 

Mr. McCurry looked around, to see no one was 
watching, and said: 

"Well, I don't want your father to know it, but I'll 
loan you the money." 

A few minutes later we were on the inside of the 
palace of pleasure, whistling with the other boys, and 
demanding that the circus men appear, for the per- 
formance had not yet commenced. But when it did 
begin, it was all we expected, $nd more. It was 

— 14— . 



DOCTOR GILKERSON 



Miles Orton's circus, I remember, and the clown was 
a merry fellow called Doctor Gilkerson. 

Delight succeeded delight for an hour, when the 
proceedings were interrupted by a drunken man. We 
didn't know him; there was only one drunkard, Fin 
Wilkerson, in our neighbourhood. We supposed the 
new drunkard had wandered into town from some 
other neighbourhood, owing to the circus, and were 
in sympathy with the ring master, who attempted to 
throw the man out. But the man wouldn't be thrown 
out, and seemed determined to make trouble. He 
said he had known the clown, Doctor Gilkerson, when 
they were boys, and wanted to talk to him. 

About this time Doctor Gilkerson came in, and 
said he didn't know the dissipated man. But the 
man insisted, and finally they patched up an acquaint- 
ance. We were disposed at first to be annoyed by 
the interruption of the stranger, but when Doctor 
Gilkerson shook hands with him, and threw him head 
over heels, we roared with laughter. 

It seemed Doctor Gilkerson had known the fellow 
very well; they had gone to school together as boys, 
somewhere, and after they had talked awhile, Doctor 
Gilkerson asked: 

"By-the-way, what has become of old Howe, who 
used to teach school down there?" 

"Why," replied the drunken man, "don't you 
know? He's running a newspaper about the size of 

— 15 — 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

a postage stamp here, and has become so good that 
he won't print circus advertisements." 

It was the first joke on a citizen ever heard in a 
show in the town, and the people almost suffocated 
with merriment, they were so pleased. The show was 
brought to a standstill by the merriment of the people 
over the joke on the editor, and Jim and I were 
amused, too; we were getting something to offset the 
whipping we expected later. 

At last the people were satisfied with the joke on 
the editor, and we thought the performance would be 
resumed. But the clown's friend still insisted on be- 
ing sociable with the show people, and there were 
cries of "Put him out!" But the man wouldn't go 
out, and wanted to ride a horse that stood in the ring. 
I had been thinking I could ride it, as the horse had 
a big flat pad on its back. Doctor Gilkerson was in 
favour of letting the intruder ride, but the ring mas- 
ter said he would kill himself. 

"All right," said the merry man, "let him kill him- 
self. That's a good way to get rid of him." 

It was finally agreed to let the stranger try, and 
away went the horse and the band, with the drunken 
man on the horse's back. It was tremendously ex- 
citing; the man reeled and staggered a good deal, and 
the people in the audience were mightily pleased that 
a man from the country, and drunk at that, could do 
it. 

— 16 — 



DOCTOR GILKERSON 



Then the man managed to stand on his feet, and 
take off his coat. This was exciting; but a dreadful 
thing happened at that time: the man being intoxi- 
cated, and not knowing what he was doing, began 
taking off his pants ! Much to my surprise, the circus 
men did not stop him, and before we all died of 
mortification, the man got his pants off, and turned out 
to be a circus rider in tights. 

We felt mighty cheap when we realized we had been 
beautifully fooled, but we enjoyed that, too, along 
with the joke on the editor, and everybody had a good 
time. 

But at last the show was over, and Jim and I hung 
around an hour or more, dreading to go home; we 
knew what was coming to us. There was a sideshow, 
and the barker was busy while the main tent was 
being torn down. I wanted to see the sideshow, but 
had no money, and finally thought of a scheme: I 
had heard that if a printer displayed his rule to the 
doorkeeper of a show, the doorkeeper would let him 
in free. I tried it, and the doorkeeper in an amused 
way, looked at me, laughed, and said: 

"Well, it's all right! Go on in!" 

Probably he had been a printer's devil himself; 
anyway, he let me in. He tried to stop Jim, who 
hadn't his rule with him, but 1 said: 

"That's all right; he has one, but left it at 
home," 

— 17 — 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

So Jim got in free, too, and I felt mighty important. 
The sideshow didn't amount to much; it was nothing 
more than a lot of stereopticon views of the war, then 
going on, and we were soon confronted with the neces- 
sity of going home, and taking our whipping. On 
the way, I got into a row with a boy belonging to the 
circus, and he pushed me, and I pushed as hard as he 
did, and said if he wanted any more, to come on. 
Jim thought I was a tremendous dare devil. Jim 
was older than I, but he always followed me every- 
where ; had I stirred up a fight with the circus men, he 
would have followed me, and done the best he could, 
but he couldn't have done much, as he was always a 
weakly boy. 

The last wagon drove away about two o'clock in 
the morning, and then there was nothing left for us 
but to go home. So we sneaked in at the kitchen 
door; we imagined mother would leave that open for 
us, and found she had. After entering the kitchen, 
there was a door leading into the sitting room, and 
then a stairway leading up to our room. We had 
gone around the house, and noted a light in the sit- 
ting room; that's where we expected trouble. After 
entering the kitchen, we tried the knob of the sitting 
room door, and attempted to turn it quietly. Ever 
notice how a door knob squeaks when you try to turn 
it quietly? That door knob squeaked, and when we 
turned it, opened the door, and went into the sitting 

— 18 — 



DOCTOR GILKERSON 



room, there sat the editor, waiting for us. I went in 
first, and Jim sneaked in behind me. 

"Well," father said, "you've been to the circus?" 

There was no use trying to deceive him ; I was will- 
ing to try, but knew it was impossible, so I replied, 
meekly: 

"Yes, sir." 

He thought awhile, as though trying to decide just 
how hard he would whip us, and finally inquired : 

"How did you like it?" 

I was too wise a boy to be enthusiastic, under the 
circumstances, so I replied: 

"0, I didn't think it amounted to much." (I did, 
though; it was the very best show I ever saw in my 
life.) 

For some reason the editor didn't grab us, and be- 
gin the punishment we expected, and he had no 
switch. 

"Did they say anything about me?" he asked. 

I hadn't thought of that before, but evidently he 
had been expecting an attack. I repeated what the 
clown had said, making it as mild as possible. 

"How did the people take it?" he asked again. 

Then I had an idea; so I replied with animation: 

"Well, sir, you should have been there, and seen 
how the people took it! Bill Hillman, the sheriff, 
walked down to the ring, and shook his fist at the 
clown, and said the people wouldn't stand for low 

— 19 — 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

circus people abusing a prominent man like you. 
And Mr. Cuddy, the banker, he walked down to the 
ring, too, and told the circus men what he thought of 
them. He said you were one of the most useful men 
in this town, and that people looked up to you, and 
that they didn't want to hear any more of that." 

The editor was evidently pleased; still he delayed 
the whipping. 

' 'Well," he said at last, after thinking awhile, 
"hurry up to bed. We've a big day's work ahead of 
us tomorrow." 

When we got into bed, we chuckled softly, and Jim 
nudged me with his elbow, and said I was certainly 
the boldest, wisest boy the country ever produced. 

And we paid back Mr. McCurry next day, with 
ducks we stole from mother, and later we fixed it all 
right with her: she never was hard on us as father 
was. When we told her how we fooled father, she 
said it was a shame, but we caught her laughing about 
it afterwards. 



— 20 



JIM AND DAN AYRES 

So little that is really exciting or worth while has 
happened in my life that I am greatly interested in 
Jim and Dan Ayres, who run the restaurant. Some- 
thing really happened to them; I never before heard 
of boys going anywhere and finding excitement as 
great as they expected. 

When they were boys they lived on a farm in Vir- 
ginia; I have heard them say their postoffice was 
Sudley Springs. One morning their father started 
them to Sunday school, and after they had loitered 
along the way a mile or two, Jim Ayres remarked a 
commotion over beyond what they called the Big 
Woods. 

"What's that?" Jim asked, stopping. 

It was getting late by this time, and Dan replied: 

"I don't know, but we'd better hurry to Sunday 
school, or we'll get a whipping." 

Then they hurried on, but the commotion over be- 
yond the Big Woods broke out again; faintly, but it 
was very unusual, and Jim stopped and listened. He 
had never heard anything like it before, although he 
was a big boy twelve years old, and after listening 
awhile, said: 

"I'm going over there." 

—21— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

"Better not," Dan said. "You know father whips 
hard. 59 

But the strange commotion continued, so Jim said 
he was going, whipping or no whipping. Dan fol- 
lowed, but kept saying they would catch it when they 
returned home. 

They walked, and walked, and walked. All the 
time the commotion over beyond the Big Woods be- 
came more pronounced, but they couldn't tell what it 
was. They forded streams, and were chased by 
strange dogs, but kept on; from ten o'clock in the 
morning until three o'clock in the afternoon. They 
had nothing to eat, and they didn't know that they 
could ever find their way back, because they were in 
a country strange to them. But they kept on, and a 
little after three o'clock, as a reward for their perse- 
verance, they walked into the battle of Bull Run. 



—22— 



GEORGE COULTER 

Although I have always worked as an editor and 
printer, it has been in country printing offices, and I 
would know no more about working on a city news- 
paper than I know about building or repairing tele- 
phone lines. In the country printing offices we do 
everything: reporting, editing, soliciting, job work, 
writing cards of thanks, making rollers of glue and 
molasses, and running the engine or press on oc- 
casion. All these things I have done, as proprietor, 
devil and editor, until I can almost do them with my 
eyes shut. 

But one day a real Journalist drifted into the coun- 
try newspaper office where I was editor and owner. 
He was a specialist; a real live wire, and had worked 
in a big town. His name was George Coulter, and his 
specialty was the subscription department. He was 
also a writer; indeed, he gave me to understand that 
when he worked in Denver, on the Tribune, there was 
some question as to whether George Coulter or Eugene 
Field would finally become noted. But George Coul- 
ter finally preferred the Business End, and as our 
subscription list needed help, we put him on. He 
soon convinced me that our way was old-fashioned and 
ineffective, which I had long suspected, and he at 

—23— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

once introduced his new ideas, although we never 
noticed much change. 

Coulter was a little man, and there were wide 
spaces between his front teeth. His health was never 
very good, and as he was thin as well as short, his 
head was so small that the bows of the man-size spec- 
tacles he wore wrapped twice around his ears. It 
developed that the other employes, who had never 
had experience in a big town, and had drifted into 
the front office from the press room or composing 
room, were as good as Coulter, but we all rather liked 
him, and as his pay didn't amount to much, kept him. 

Soon after George Coulter's arrival we met his 
wife; a tall, stout woman probably sixty-five years 
old. Coulter was not to exceed thirty, and really 
didn't amount to much, but I have never known an- 
other husband to be admired as he was. Mrs. 
Coulter was a doctor, and had been married before; I 
heard of two previous husbands, both of them doctors. 
Whether she had had others I do not know, but she 
worshipped George, and believed him to be a great 
journalist. She occasionally irritated me by giving 
the impression that the prosperity of the paper was 
due to her husband's efforts, but she was a kindly old 
woman, and I let her believe that Coulter did what 
the rest of us were doing, and had been doing many 
years before he came. 

I discovered, also, that the domestic relations of 
—24— 



GEORGE COULTER 



Mr. and Mrs. Coulter were not always happy. 
Coulter frequently went on the road to solicit sub- 
scriptions; by going into a territory where the paper 
was not very well known, he sometimes did very well, 
and was useful in a way; but I discovered that before 
starting on these trips, he usually had a difference 
with his wife. 

And his wife was so distressed about it! She 
seemed to be to blame; anyway, she took the blame, 
and often came to me, and begged me to coax Coulter 
to return to her. He was working on a commission 
basis, and we never paid much attention when he 
came and went; we never really cared whether he ever 
came back. But his wife loved him sincerely, and, 
as she had money, earned in practising a profession 
learned from her other husbands, she brought money 
to me, and asked me to send it to Coulter, that he 
might come home. She feared he might be ill on 
the road, and poor, and, as he was very sensitive, she 
felt that maybe he was staying away from her be- 
cause he hadn't a new suit of clothes. So I often sent 
him his wife's money, when there was none coming 
to him from the office, and he would come back, and 
loiter around in his listless way a few weeks, and then 
disappear again. 

Coulter was really a disagreeable problem to us, 
but he was inoffensive, and drifted along from month 
to month. He didn't act as though he felt superior 

—25— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

to his associates at the office, but he certainly felt 
superior to his stout wife, and I often wondered she 
didn't make him behave himself, as she was really 
quite a woman, and had a good practice. 

When Coulter returned from one of his long trips, 
I noticed he didn't look very well. After appearing 
at the office every day for a week or two, he disap- 
peared, but I supposed he was mad at his wife again 
about something, and had gone away. A week later, 
however, I heard he was ill. I had a distinct 
consciousness that I should go to see him, but was 
very busy, and kept putting it off from day to day. 

One morning, a strange little girl appeared at the 
counter with a note for me. Somehow I had a feeling 
that the note was from Mrs. Coulter, and that her 
husband was worse. Then I felt guilty because I 
had not called to see her before. 

It turned out as I feared; Coulter was not only 
worse: he was dead, and Mrs. Coulter asked in the 
note that I come to see her. Feeling guilty, I went 
at once. 

She lived over the jewellery store, on the main 
street, and when I climbed the stairway softly, and 
rapped at the door, was admitted. 

Mrs. Coulter was in a pitiful state of grief, and I 
was thoroughly ashamed of myself because I had 
neglected her. It also developed that she was almost 
in need; she had been unable to practise during her 

—26— 



GEORGE COULTER 



husband's illness, and asked if I would not help her 
provide a coffin in which to send the body to a brother 
who lived in another town. I cheerfully agreed to do 
this, and comforted the distressed widow as much as I 
could. 

The body was lying in the room, on a board sup- 
ported by two chairs, and I thought it no more than 
decent to look at poor George, but when I raised the 
sheet with which his body was covered, I encountered 
his feet, instead of his face, and was compelled to 
try again. / 

Mrs. Coulter told me what a wonderful man her 
husband was; how journalism had been robbed of 
one of its ornaments, and how he was just getting 
started in the world when death cut him off. I ac- 
cepted all she said, as people do under such circum- 
stances, and added a comforting word myself, al- 
though the actual facts were that Coulter, during his 
lifetime, had not amounted to much. 

Then I went away to make the funeral arrange- 
ments. Arriving at the undertaker's, I felt so 
ashamed because of my neglect of Coulter that I 
bought a very good casket, and resolved to have a 
choir, and a funeral service. Mrs. Coulter intended 
leaving with the body on a late afternoon train, so I 
had plenty of time, and went at once to the most 
popular preacher in town. When I told him how 
friendless Coulter was, the preacher readily agreed 

—27— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

to officiate at the funeral, and helped me make up a 
quartet to sing appropriate hymns. The soprano and 
contralto hadn't much to do, and as they were friends 
of mine I had no trouble in securing their consent by 
telephone. 

I had some trouble with the tenor and bass. Both 
of them worked for employers who were often both- 
ered by requests to let the singers off, but I called on 
these employers, and, by telling them what a good 
fellow Coulter was, they not only agreed to let the 
singers off, but promised to attend the services I had 
arranged. 

Then I went to work on the pall bearers. I picked 
out five of the most prominent men in town, de- 
termined that Mrs. Coulter should be satisfied with 
the funeral I had arranged, however much she re- 
sented my neglect to call during her husband's illness. 
The men I picked out as pall bearers were very kind, 
and readily consented to act, when I explained the 
case; men are always very nice about such things. 

The funeral was to occur at 5 P. M., and the men 
who were to act with me as pall bearers were in- 
structed to meet at that hour at the foot of the stair- 
way leading up to Mrs. Coulter's rooms over the 
jewellery store. They were all there promptly, except 
Balie Waggener, the lawyer. When he didn't come 
I recalled that he was always promising to deliver 
public addresses, and then failing to appear, but I 

—28— 



GEORGE COULTER 



hadn't time to be indignant, for the hour of the fu- 
neral had arrived, and we lacked a pall bearer. The 
bankers I had selected to assist were also indignant 
because of Balie's failure to appear, and said that 
was the way he did in everything. But just then Sam 
Kelsey, the mayor, came along. I wondered I had 
forgotten the mayor, so we grabbed him, and ex- 
plained that we needed him. He had just lit a fifteen 
cent cigar, but threw it away, after taking a few re- 
gretful puffs, and we hurried him up the stairs ahead 
of us. 

Sam Kelsey, the mayor, was a noted lodgeman and 
old soldier, and knew just what to do at a funeral, so 
he at once took charge. All the pall bearers, except 
the mayor, sent flowers, as had the two employers who 
had excused the tenor and bass to sing in the quartet. 
The members of the quartet were present, as was the 
preacher, and two girls from the office. Mrs. Coulter 
had always believed the girls at the office flirted with 
her husband, although they really abominated him, 
but in the presence of death she forgave all, and had 
her arms about one of them. 

Sam Kelsey, being experienced, saw that we were 
ready to begin, so he made a signal to the members of 
the quartet, and they sang two beautiful selections. 
It was really very impressive, and Mrs. Coulter shook 
with emotion; indeed, all of us were moved. Mrs. 
Coulter evidently thought the leading men of the town 

—29— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

were paying George the attention lie deserved, now 
that he was dead, and her grief greatly moved me, 
for she was really fond of her husband. Sam Kelsey 
tiptoed over to Mrs. Coulter during the singing, and 
spoke a comforting word to her, and if any of the 
pall bearers did not know how to act, he gently and 
quietly put them right. 

The preacher spoke impressively of the dead; I had 
given him an idea of the life of the deceased, making 
it as favourable as possible; and, after the quartet 
sang another hymn, Sam Kelsey, the mayor, knew it 
was time to carry the casket down the stairway to the 
hearse, which had backed up to the sidewalk. So 
he arranged the pall bearers according to size, and, at 
a signal from him, we picked up the casket, and 
carried it reverently down the stairs, depositing it in 
the hearse. 

My idea was to cut across lots, meet the hearse at 
the depot, and put the casket in the baggage car, but 
Sam Kelsey wouldn't have it that way: he lined us up 
on either side of the hearse, three on a side, and, 
after squinting along the lines, to see that we were 
properly placed, he gave a signal to the driver of 
the hearse, and we walked with measured tread to 
the depot. 

We had on white cotton gloves, much too long for 
us in every finger, but altogether we made a rather 
impressive procession, with Mrs. Coulter and the 

—30— 



GEORGE COULTER 



two girls from the office following in a carriage. 

Arriving at the depot, we placed the casket on a 
truck, and wheeled it to the baggage car. It was a 
very hot day, but Sam Kelsey made us remove our 
hats while taking the casket from the hearse to the 
baggage car. The casket was very heavy, and it 
was hard work getting it into the car, but finally this 
was accomplished, and the flowers placed on the 
casket. Then we stood around in solemn silence 
for a moment, before departing, and Sam Kelsey, 
with his hat still off, wiped a lot of perspiration from 
the top of his bald head, and, leaning over to me, 
whispered in a tender, sympathetic way: 

"Who was he?" 



-31— 



SAMMY HEMINGWAY 

Among the children in the school I attended in the 
country when a boy were the five Hemingway boys, 
particular friends of mine. Their father was killed 
at Shiloh, and when I went to their house to stay all 
night and found their mother in bad humour I forgave 
it, as people said the death of Mr. Hemingway had 
ruined her disposition. Besides, she had seven chil- 
dren, and only one of them was a girl and she was 
married and lived in a distant state. 

One of the Hemingway boys, Sammy, the oldest 
one, didn't go to school. He was simple-minded, 
owing to the doctor giving him strong medicine when 
he was a baby, it was said, so he remained at home 
and made boots. His father had been a bootmaker 
before he went away to the war, and Sammy had as- 
sisted him. When the father went away it was dis- 
covered that Sammy knew the trade, and after that he 
made the boots for the men and boys in the neigh- 
bourhood. Most of the men and boys in our section 
wore rough boots made by Sammy Hemingway. 
When a man became a little more prosperous than 
the others he ordered kip boots, with red tops, and 
Sammy Hemingway made these too. 

When I needed new boots I was sent to Mrs. Hem- 
—32— 



SAMMY HEMINGWAY 



ingway's, where Sammy measured me; when my old 
boots needed repairing I was also sent there, where I 
took off my boots and sat in the room with Sammy 
until the repairs were completed. 

I therefore knew Sammy pretty well, but never 
knew his mother very well until I began going there 
to stay all night with her boys, two of whom were 
near my own age. When we arrived from school we 
always found Mrs. Hemingway fretful, but the boys 
would whisper to me that she would be all right after 
a while, so we kept out of her way and did the evening 
chores. 

Sammy was twenty-five years old, and had black- 
whiskers all over his face, which his mother trimmed 
occasionally. She also cut his hair and made his 
clothes. When supper was ready Mrs. Hemingway 
would put food on his plate, and he would eat it, but 
he never asked for more. Indeed, he couldn't talk 
very well, and it was necessary to lead him to the 
table, and to his room upstairs. 

When there were no boots to make or shoes to 
mend Sammy was led to his room and locked up. 
When a customer came his mother went for Sammy, 
and he seemed to understand what was wanted; he had 
learned it from his father, and measured, and pegged, 
and sewed, until the work was done. Then he was 
locked up again. 

But though Mrs. Hemingway was always in a bad 
—33— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

humour when I went there to stay all night she gradu- 
ally became better natured toward evening; and when 
all the work was done she would sit about the fire 
with us and tell about the people she used to know in 
Indiana, where she came from. By eight o'clock she 
was as good-natured a woman as I ever knew, and 
said she was glad I came, and insisted that I come 
often. 

Sammy never paid any attention to me; when we 
children played in the evening he pegged away at 
his bootmaking without looking up. His workbench 
was in the main sitting room at one end of the fire- 
place, and we paid no more attention to Sammy than 
he paid to us. If he ran out of work he would go 
over to his mother, tug at her dress and indicate that 
he was ready to go to his room and be locked up. 
Occasionally at night when we children went upstairs 
to bed Mrs. Hemingway would give us the key to 
Sammy's room, that we might go in and see that he 
was all right. If he were awake we found him con- 
vulsively working his hands, as he always did when 
not mending or making boots; if he were asleep his 
right hand was always lying across his forehead, as 
though he had a pain there. If Sammy ever dis- 
turbed any one it was his mother, for no one else ever 
took any care of him or knew much about him. 

One day when I asked permission of my mother 
to stay all night with the Hemingway boys she refused, 

—34— 



SAMMY HEMINGWAY 



saying Mrs. Hemingway was poorly. After that Mrs. 
Hemingway's sickness became the topic of conversa- 
tion for months, and I learned that her f retfulness was 
due to the fact that she had long been a sufferer from 
some serious malady. She grew gradually worse, 
and had no one to help her. The neighbour women 
took turn about calling on her every day, straighten- 
ing up, but finally it became apparent that some one 
must remain with her all the time, which the women 
could ill afford as they had big families of their own. 

About this time I heard that Mrs. Hemingway's 
married daughter in Indiana had been sent for. It 
was the custom when any one went to town to bring 
home mail for the entire neighbourhood, which was 
distributed by the children. After that when we met 
any one coming from town we asked if Mrs. Heming- 
way's letter had come, for Mrs. Hemingway was grow- 
ing weaker and greatly needed her daughter. 

At last the long-expected letter came; father 
brought it from town one afternoon, and while I 
hurried over to her house with it the other children 
went to the houses of other neighbours, and told them 
the good news — that Mrs. Hemingway's letter had at 
last arrived. 

When I arrived at the Hemingway house and 
knocked, Sammy was sitting near the door making 
boots, but paid no attention to me, but his mother, who 
was lying in a bed in the same room, told me to come 

—35— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

in. She looked dreadfully pale and weak, and asked 
me to read the letter. It was full of affection, and 
the writer said she would start three days later. Mrs. 
Hemingway told me to carry the letter at once to my 
father, which I did, and he decided that it would 
be necessary for him to start for the railroad that 
night in order to meet her. 

When I took the letter to Mrs. Hemingway's I 
noticed that Sammy, though he was simpleminded, 
seemed to realize that something was wrong with his 
mother. My bringing the letter excited him, and he 
quit his bootmaking and went over to his mother and 
put his hand on her forehead, and moaned like a child 
in pain. When he returned to his chair he swayed 
to and fro and forgot about his bootmaking for a 
time, and I was compelled to hurry out of the room, 
to keep from crying, it was so pitiful. 

After that we watched the road for signs of the 
visitor, for Mrs. Hemingway was very bad off; but 
when the visitor did arrive, bringing two little girls 
with her, things seemed to go better at the Heming- 
ways'. The daughter, whose name was Latimer, 
straightened things out, and made her mother more 
comfortable. Mrs. Latimer was one of the nicest 
women we had ever seen, and the manner in which 
she was up with her mother night and day won us all. 

After Mrs. Latimer had been there a month people 
began to wonder how Mr. Latimer took it; there were 

—36— 



SAMMY HEMINGWAY 



predictions that he wouldn't like doing the milking 
and the cooking, and one day when Mr. Latimer ar- 
rived we thought he had come after his wife, and to 
make a fuss. But he hadn't; he had come to help his 
wife and Mrs. Hemingway. We heard of his going 
to town after delicacies for Mrs. Hemingway, and on 
returning from these trips he always brought things 
for the Hemingway boys too. 

Soon after his arrival I was sent over to ask how 
Mrs. Hemingway was. She wasn't any better; in 
fact she was a great deal worse, and didn't know me. 
Even Sammy had noticed some great change, for while 
I was there he rose from his bench, went over to his 
mother's bed and tried to induce her to get up. 

Mr. Latimer was in the room, and his patience and 
gentleness greatly attracted me; I had not been ac- 
customed to that sort of thing. His fondness for his 
wife and her fondness for him also surprised me. I 
was sent to Mrs. Hemingway's many times after that 
to inquire how she was, and Mr. and Mrs. Latimer's 
devotion to each other was a wonderful thing; I had 
never before seen wives and husbands who seemed to 
think a great deal of each other. 

One night word came to our house that Mrs. Hem- 
ingway was dead, and I went with my father to ring 
the bell. It was the custom in our neighbourhood to 
toll the church bell when there was a death, one ring 
for each year of the deceased's age. I sat shivering 

—37— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

in the church until my father tolled the bell fifty- 
seven times, and then we went home. As we walked 
along through the darkness, returning home from 
tolling the bell, my father told me that one day during 
Mrs. Hemingway's illness she asked that all leave the 
room except Mr. Latimer. When she was alone with 
him she asked as her dying request that he be good 
to Sammy, And Mr. Latimer promised, and my 
father seemed much moved by the incident, as I 
think all the people in the neighbourhood were. The 
gentleness and kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Latimer did 
us all good. 

The day after the funeral Mr. Latimer announced 
that he intended taking the family back to his home in 
Indiana. Mrs. Hemingway had requested it, and he 
thought it was as little as he could do; so on the 
fourth morning after the death they started, Sammy 
sitting on his shoemaker's bench and the boys climbing 
all over the wagon. 

And then, after saying good-bye, about the only 
good husband ever known in our neighbourhood drove 
away. 



—38— 



DAVIS STRAIGHT 

When I was ten years old my Uncle Joe came to 
our house on his wedding journey, driving a pair of 
little mules to a farm wagon; and it was arranged that 
I should accompany him home and visit my grand- 
mother, who lived five miles from his house, in the 
Grand River hills. 

Uncle Joe's bride didn't like me very well, and I 
didn't stay long at their house; Uncle Joe soon took 
me over to my grandmother's, who had a son only 
a little older than I was; a boy named Nate, a noted 
hunter, for he had killed wild turkeys. 

Nate never did do much but hunt, but I was kept 
pretty busy at home and greatly enjoyed the vacation. 
We went hunting every day, but Nate said I had 
brought him bad luck, for we didn't find any turkeys ; 
nor much else except a few squirrels. We were the 
idlest pair of vagabonds in that entire section, and a 
certain boy living in the same neighbourhood caused 
us a good deal of annoyance. He was a famous good 
boy named Davis Straight, and some sort of a distant 
relation of ours; but we didn't like him, he was so 
industrious and well-behaved. We were always be- 
ing told how industrious and worthy Davis Straight 
was, and wherever we went we met him on the road 

—39— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

driving a wagon loaded with wood; and every time 
we met him he had a turkey or wild goose on the 
wagon. He had run into the game accidentally, while 
at work; we couldn't do it, hunt as hard as we would. 

But one day we sneaked up to a little lake in the 
Grand River bottom, and there sat a wild goose with 
its head under water poking round for wild celery. I 
was so anxious to get a goose that I let Nate shoot, 
though it was my turn. He had an old shotgun, and 
was a noted shot with it, and while he was taking aim 
I thought as rapidly as they say a drowning man does ; 
I made up my mind to tell the other boys, when I re- 
turned home, that there were two geese, and that I 
got them both. 

Just then there was a muffled report and Nate fell 
over on the ground with his fingers in his mouth; the 
gun had burst, and the goose flew away. 

Nate wasn't much hurt, and we started home, carry- 
ing the heavy gun, though there weren't enough gun- 
smiths in the world to do anything with it; it had burst 
at the breach. We had put in a goose-and-turkey 
load, and put in too much. 

Of course we met Davis Straight on the way home 
with a load of wood. He had a wild turkey, which 
he had run into accidentally and shot without any 
delay; otherwise he wouldn't have stopped. He was 
such a good boy that he always returned home when 
expected — or earlier — ready to be at something else, 

—40— 



DAVIS STRAIGHT 



and shame Nate and me. Davis Straight was my 
Aunt Beckie's stepson, and I never could understand 
how she tolerated him. 

Having no gun, time didn't pass very rapidly, and 
Nate and I became quarrelsome; indeed we came near 
having a fight one day. So grandmother said it was 
time for me to go home. 

It was forty miles to where I lived through an al- 
most unbroken country, but I was mad at Nate, so I 
struck out to walk home, without bidding Nate good- 
bye. Grandmother said it was a shame the way we 
acted, but Nate started it; I remember that. 

I left in the afternoon, intending to spend the night 
at Uncle Joe's, who lived five miles on the way. 
Aunt Mary wasn't very glad to see me, though she was 
a bride, but I told her she needn't worry; that I in- 
tended leaving at daylight next morning. Uncle Joe 
talked of taking me part way in the wagon, saying 
that it was a shame for me to walk home after coming 
so far to see them, but Aunt Mary soon put a stop 
to that talk; she seemed to run things round that 
house. Aunt Mary was a Brassfield, and the Brass- 
fields thought a good deal of themselves ; I think they 
opposed her marrying Uncle Joe in the first place. 

I liked the way she talked so little that I got up 
at daylight and started without eating any breakfast. 
Uncle Joe was a good deal exercised about my start- 
ing out on foot; he always was the best one in the 

—41— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

family. But he couldn't help himself; he was afraid 
of Aunt Mary, who didn't like me. 

I intended stopping that night at George Meek's, a 
neighbour of ours before we moved to town. That 
left thirty miles for me to walk from daylight to 
dark; but I didn't think much of it — before I started 
and when I was mad at Nate. There were only a 
few houses on the way, and the road ran mostly 
through prairie. 

About noon I passed a house and went in, asking 
for a drink of water, but really hoping they would 
give me something to eat. They were just sitting 
down to the table, and the man asked me to eat with 
them. 

I thought I must be polite a while, and said: "No, 
thank you." 

Unfortunately the man took me at my word, and 
said: "Well, of course, if you don't want anything, 
all right, but you're welcome to it." 

I sat and watched them eat a while, and then went 
out to the bars and cried because I was such a fool. 
But I had to make it to George Meek's before dark, 
as there were panthers in the woods round his place, 
the big boys said; so I started on my weary way again. 

In the middle of the afternoon I passed through a 
little town called Bancroft, a collection of half a 
dozen houses and a store. When I went into the 
store the proprietor was eating candied cherries out 

—42— 



DAVIS STRAIGHT 



of a jar. I was hungry but had no money, and 
would not beg. The man dropped one of the cherries, 
and I was just about to dart after it, when he mashed 
it with his foot. He was the burliest ruffian I ever 
saw. 

The walk nearly killed me, and I dragged myself 
into George Meek's house about dark. They knew 
me well, and were surprised when I told them how 
far I had walked. They offered me food but I 
couldn't eat much, and went to bed, sick. 

The next day I had a high fever, and my father 
was sent for. He came the second day with a horse 
and buggy, to take me home. I lay down in the bot- 
tom of the buggy on a quilt, and father was disposed 
to grumble because I had made myself sick.' 

When we reached home mother was waiting at the 
front gate. 

"Where's Ed?" she asked anxiously. 

For some reason father replied: "He was too sick 
to bring home." 

Mother turned toward the house hurriedly, to get 
her bonnet and shawl, and said: "You needn't put 
up the horse; I am going right back after him." 

There had never been much affection in our family, 
father was so stern and busy, and her saying that 
made me cry. She heard me sobbing, and she came 
back and took me into the house, where I told her 
exactly how Nate and Aunt Mary and grandmother 
had treated me. 

—43— 



SAM HARRIS 

The smartest banker in this part of the country, 
it is generally said round town, is Sam Harris. Un- 
fortunately he has one very bad habit: Occasionally 
he goes down to the city and engages in dissipation. 
At such times he takes with him a long pistol kept in 
the bank in case of burglars, and it is always feared 
he will shoot some one. 

Ordinarily he is a very thrifty man, locally noted 
for getting all that is coming to him; and we country 
people talk a good deal about that, too, as well as 
his occasional sprees. 

He has a fine family, and when he goes off on the 
rampage his wife hurries to her particular friends and 
begs that they drop their work and go and look after 
him. They don't like to do it, but they all like 
Margaret, and usually consent. 

The last time Sam gave way to his weakness it was 
Link Morrill's turn to go to the city, look him up, 
care for him, and bring him back safe to his family, 
to sober up. Link grumbled a good deal about going 
and said he couldn't afford the time, but he had 
known Margaret since she was a baby, almost, and 
couldn't resist her tearful appeal. 

So Link went to the city, soon found Sam by going 
_44— 



SAM HARRIS 



to the roughest part of town, and took charge of him. 

As they walked along down near the union depot 
they passed an auction store where cigars were being 
sold. The auctioneer was a loud-voiced man, and 
said he proposed to open a box of the cigars and throw 
them into the crowd, in order that the gentlemen 
present might each get one, smoke it and realize the 
extra quality. The auctioneer intimated very broadly 
that the goods he was offering had been smuggled 
into the country without paying duty, and that he was 
offering twenty-cent cigars for whatever they would 
bring. 

The talk about giving something away attracted 
Sam Harris' attention, in spite of his condition, and 
he went into the auction room, Link following to look 
after him. Again the auctioneer said he would throw 
a box of the valuable cigars in the crowd, in order 
that those present might realize their extra quality. 
Suiting the action to the word he threw a box into 
the crowd. 

Immediately there was a great scramble ; those in the 
room went into a heap on the floor, wrestling round 
after the free cigars, and Link says it was very rough. 
Sam Harris promptly engaged in the scuffle and 
pushed and rushed with the roughest of the rough 
men. Link says it was the toughest bunch he ever 
saw. 

The free samples being disposed of, the auctioneer 
—45— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

began offering cigars like them for sale, and Link 
and Sam went out. As they walked on down the 
street trying to reach a safe part of town Link frankly 
told Sam he ought to be ashamed of himself; that 
though he was a great banker, a good citizen and the 
head of a fine family, his friends were through chas- 
ing after him when he went on the rampage, and that 
in the future he might depend on looking after him- 
self. Link had long wanted to talk to Sam plainly, 
and accepted this occasion. 

About this time Sam took a cigar from his vest 
pocket and lighted it. Link wanted a cigar also, and 
not having one of his own took one from Sam's pocket. 
In doing so he found all his pockets full, and was 
curious to know how many he had managed to get 
in the rough scramble at the auction store. He 
counted, and found Sam had thirty-two. 

Link says if Sam hadn't been drunk he would have 
got all of them. 



— 46 — 



BART WHERRY 

Our people are distressed because Bart Wherry, the 
lawyer, will move to the county seat and open an 
office there. We don't like to lose a good citizen, 
particularly one like Bart Wherry, who has become 
rather noted over the state because of his speeches in 
conventions and at notable court trials. 

So a committee called on him to see if anything 
could be done. It turned out nothing could be done ; 
Bart is going away. He talked quite frankly to mem- 
bers of the committee. It seems he is tired of keeping 
Charley Millard down. 

Charley Millard is a man of about Bart's age, and 
in Bart's employ; he sits in the outer office and tells 
callers when Bart will be at leisure. In addition he 
keeps the books and looks after the collections. 

Charley Millard does not really amount to a great 
deal, having tried practising law for himself, but when 
Bart Wherry wins a big case we all say Charley Mil- 
lard really won it; that he looked up the law and told 
Bart what to say in the trial. When Bart makes a 
speech at a convention and the papers ring with it, 
we say Charley Millard wrote the speech; that he is 
bookish, while Bart is not. 

Charley Millard's wife also believes her husband 
—47— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

should have the reputation as a lawyer enjoyed by 
his employer, and in the course of a long time Bart has 
become tired of the talk. So he is going to the county 
seat to open an office. 

•Charley Millard wanted to go along and occupy his 
old position, but Bart said to him: "No, Charley, 
you have already done too much for me. I want you 
to take the position in the legal world your talents 
deserve. And at the same time I expect Fin. Wilkin- 
son to be nominated this fall for President of the 
United States. It has always been said of Fin. that 
were it not for whisky he would occupy the first posi- 
tion in the gift of the people. Now that no more 
liquor is to be had let Fin. come through with you." 



48- 



PILSON BLAIR 



A good many observers say Pilson Blair is enjoy- 
ing his second wife as much as the Widow Sayer 
enjoys the life insurance she collected from the lodge. 



49- 



BEN BARTON 

Though we are excited in this town nearly every 
day because of a rumour that something is likely to 
happen before night, it usually blows over, and we 
find there was not a great deal in the talk in the first 
place. 

But one day a bomb exploded without the slightest 
preliminary warning: Ben Barton and his w T ife 
Emily parted. 

We had known them for years, and they seemed 
to get along as well as any respectable married couple. 
They had a nice home and three interesting children. 
Ben was prosperous, and generally said to be a com- 
ing man; his wife was a model of propriety, and be- 
longed to an excellent family. But there was no 
doubt of the truth of the report. Ben went to the 
home of his parents to live, and Emily remained in 
the house where their children were born; in a little 
while they applied quietly to the court, and were 
divorced on account of incompatibility. 

Both Ben and Emily were naturally quiet and dig- 
nified, and since neither of them volunteered any in- 
formation we were afraid to ask them. So for a 
year the cause of the trouble between them was the 
town mystery. 

—50— 



BEN BARTON 



A start was finally made by Tom Wyman, who 
made a trip to the city with Ben, and while they had 
nothing else to do talked about a little of everything 
except the divorce. But Tom did say to Ben that 
though Emily had talked rather freely to her women 
friends about their differences she had said nothing 
that prevented the boys from being on his side. 

Tom had not really heard of Emily saying any- 
thing, but thought he would try that, and it worked 
first rate. Ben took a good deal of interest in the 
statement that his former wife had been talking about 
him, and, though he didn't say anything definite, as 
soon as Tom returned home he saw to it that some of 
the women said to Emily that though Ben had been 
talking rather freely to the men they were on her 
side. She also took a good deal of interest, and 
by degrees we got the whole story. Ben told his 
side, and Emily told hers, fully and freely. 

I know only Ben's side, which I have heard him 
tell, and perhaps this will be sufficient. 

Ben says his wife not only insisted on keeping a cow 
but sold milk, and he didn't like it, as it was an inti- 
mation that he didn't provide his wife with a reason- 
able amount of spending money. Nor was this all; 
though they kept a hired man and servant girl the cow 
was very troublesome. Ben says he rarely went home 
in the evening that there wasn't some row about the 
cow not coming up or the children failing to de- 

—51— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

liver the milk. If it wasn't that it was a dispute 
about tickets, and one time a woman in the neigh- 
bourhood made a great row over the milk sent her, 
saying a preservative had been put into it, which 
made her baby so ill she was compelled to send for 
a doctor. There was some talk of arresting Ben, 
though he had always been opposed to keeping a cow 
and particularly to selling milk. 

All this made Ben very angry, so he said to his 
wife they didn't seem to be cut out for the milk 
business; that the cow had long annoyed him and 
that since he was doing well he would cheerfully buy 
all the milk the family needed. Ben confessed he 
talked more freely to Emily than he had ever done 
before, but thought he had at least settled the cow 
question for ever; the animal was sold at a sacrifice, 
and he heard no more about the matter for three 
months. 

Then a man came to Ben and said they might as 
well understand each other; that Ben's cow had broken 
into his garden and damaged things so much that he 
would no longer stand it. Ben replied that he had 
no cow, but the man proved he had. It seemed that 
Emily had bought another cow without her husband's 
knowledge, kept it in a neighbour's barn and was 
again selling milk. 

One word brought on another, with the result that 
they parted. 

—52— 



BEN BARTON 



As I have already admitted, I do not know Emily's 
side of the story, which I regret ; I would like to hear 
her explanation of one charge made by her former 
husband, and which investigation reveals to be true. 

She has been free from Ben two years, and has 
plenty of means ; she has a barn and a hired man, but 
since her husband left the house she has not kept a 
cow. 



—53— 



LIGE BANTA 

When I was a boy, a noted character in our village 
was an old bachelor named Lige Banta. 

There had long been jokes about Lige Banta' s bach- 
elorhood, as he kept bachelor's hall; and he seemed to 
do pretty well at it, for he was a fat and good-natured 
man of about forty. He ran a butcher shop, and 
it rarely happened that any one bought meat of him 
without mentioning the marrying joke. Lige rather 
liked the banter of the people, and always said he 
didn't marry because no one would have him. 

But it was reported one day that Lige was actually 
to be married, and the rumour attracted much atten- 
tion. Finally the name of the woman came out. 
Lige, to the surprise of everybody, admitted that this 
time the story was true, after many false alarms, and 
that he would be married early on a certain Thursday 
morning, and take the stage for Chillicothe on his 
wedding trip. 

I had a consuming desire to witness the marriage, 
never having seen one. I wondered what the cere- 
mony was like, and had a notion that it was something 
wonderful. Lige Banta was a friend of mine, and I 
often put myself in his way, but he didn't invite me- 

—54— 



LIGE BANTA 



Finally I made up my mind that I must see that wed- 
ding ceremony or die of curiosity. 

The morning the wedding was to take place I over- 
slept, and was not able to put on my Sunday suit; I 
only had time to slip on my everyday clothes, which 
consisted of a pair of pants, a hickory shirt and a 
straw hat. Hurrying into this costume I ran all the 
way to the part of the town where the marriage was 
to take place, without knowing exactly how I was to 
get in. Arriving in front of the house I saw people 
entering, and gradually worked up to the door. At 
last, when I thought it must be time for the ceremony, 
a belated guest hurried up, and when he went in I went 
in with him. 

There were ten or fifteen men and women sitting 
round, and my appearance amused them. It was 
summertime, and my pantaloons were rolled up at the 
bottom, showing brown legs and bare feet. I had 
on galluses, and my hat was an old straw affair that 
was very decidedly out of place at a wedding. The 
guests though greatly amused didn't know I hadn't 
been invited and didn't put me out. 

Fortunately attention was soon drawn from me; a 
side door opened and Lige came out with his bride. 
I can't recall her name; she probably belonged to a 
family I didn't know very well. The man I came in 
with turned out to be the preacher, and he stepped up 
to read the ceremony. 

—55— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

I was greatly disappointed ; it didn't amount to any- 
thing, and I half regretted coming. After the cere- 
mony the guests went up and congratulated Mr. and 
Mrs. Banta and I followed their example. By this 
time I was attracting more attention than the bride 
and groom, the preacher and the bride's kin. Lige 
didn't seem to care, and I thought I might find oppor- 
tunity to take him off to one side and explain matters. 

The bride's kin had prepared a wedding breakfast, 
and when it was ready they invited me out with the 
others. They had lots of fun with me, and heaped 
my plate with things to eat, but as I had a ravenous 
appetite they didn't have any more fun with me than 
I had with them. It happened that there was a vacant 
seat next to the bride, and I was assigned to that. I 
always did talk too much, and it wasn't long before I 
was impatient when interrupted by the bride or groom, 
the preacher or any of the guests. 

Soon after the breakfast was over the stage came 
along, and Lige and his bride left for Chillicothe. 
I swung on behind, and rode uptown. 

When my mother heard about my attending the 
wedding she cried, but she didn't whip me ; she never 
whipped her children, but my father whipped hard. 
But fortunately he never heard of it, though every one 
else did. The story of my attending the wedding 
uninvited, in my bare feet, got round — stories on me 

—56— 



LIGE BANTA 



always get round somehow — and I never heard the 
last of it. 

I went back to the town forty years later, and 
though I had been away a good many years Jim Ham- 
ilton threw up the story to me. Jim Hamilton was 
the man who had always predicted that I would be 
hanged. 

I recalled that prediction to him, but he didn't mind 
it; indeed he replied quite coolly: "Well, you're not 
dead yet." 



—57— 



MARY MASON 

The best women have a streak of stubbornness. 
I know a gentle woman who has a daughter as gentle 
as herself. I greatly admire both of them, as they 
are the sort of women I believe others should accept as 
models. But John Mason, husband of the one and 
father of the other, lately told a story about them 
which amused me. 

Every morning this family has fried eggs for break- 
fast; they prefer eggs cooked in that way rather than 
soft boiled or scrambled. The gentle mother believes 
fried eggs should be salted as soon as broken into 
the pan, while the gentle daughter believes they should 
be salted when ready for the table. 

Mary, the gentle daughter, always fried the eggs, 
and the husband and father says that every morning 
for years his gentle wife said to his gentle daughter 
as soon as she broke the eggs into the frying pan: 
"Mary, did you salt the eggs?" 

And Mary, being truthful, replied that she had not; 
and being obedient, proceeded to salt them according 
to her mother's notions rather than according to her 
own; at the same time getting that sullen look in her 
eyes which should never disfigure the face of a gentle 
woman. 

—58— 



MARY MASON 



The husband and father says he and his wife lately 
spent the night at the home of his daughter, now 
married, and at breakfast the daughter salted the eggs 
when she brought them to the table. 

"And," he added, "they were just as good; though 
I could see my wife was aching to say something." 



/ 



r 

/ 



—59— 



UNCLE JIMMY HASKINS 

When there is anything going on in the surround- 
ing country some of the town men drive out. The 
habit not only brings trade but extends our acquaint- 
ance. 

Last week I drove out to attend the golden wedding 
of Uncle Jimmy Haskins. There were a good many 
children and grandchildren present, and all the neigh- 
bours; and after dinner Uncle Jimmy and his wife 
told reminiscences. 

Mrs. Haskins remembered little but hard work. It 
seemed wonderful to me that a woman should work as 
hard as she did, even in the early days, and she made 
out quite a case, I thought, against her daughters, her 
daughters-in-law and the other women present. 

I suppose Uncle Jimmy worked hard too, but he 
didn't say much about it. I was struck with the fact 
that the most remarkable event he could recall in his 
history was that he once killed a squirrel with a rifle 
after several other men had fired at it repeatedly. 
Here was a man seventy-seven years old, yet he had 
no other adventure worth recalling. Uncle Jimmy 
has five sons, who are prosperous farmers, and four 
daughters, who married good men, .He is a man of 

—60— 



UNCLE JIMMY HASKINS 



fair intelligence and ability, yet he has nothing to 
boast of except one lucky shot at a squirrel! I 

Uncle Jimmy went to work early. I heard him 
recall that he did farm work when he was six years 
old and that his father used to complain bitterly thafc 
the boy had been a burden until he passed into his 
seventh year. For seventy-one years therefore he had. 
been going to bed only to be called in the morning vtC 
go to work, and nothing remarkable has happened* to 
him except shooting a squirrel. 

I have heard it said that every man's life would 
make a book if candidly written, but probably this is 
a mistake; certainly Uncle Jimmy's memoirs would 
be rejected by a publisher. In his day there wel^e 
bears and deer and buffaloes, but he never killed one. 
He was once young and rode about looking for ad- 
venture, but never found any. 

In the early days there were bold and wicked men, 
but they never disturbed him. For seventy-odd years 
he has locked his doors and fastened his windows at 
night, but has never been robbed. In seventy-seven 
years he has never had an illness worth recalling. 
The wind and lightning have threatened more than 
three-quarters of a century without hitting him. 

I have been thinking of Uncle Jimmy's humdrum 
life and am compelled to confess that so far mine 
has been much like it. 

—61— 



GUS SANDERSON 

When the railroad decided to extend, Gus Sander- 
son had a tip that a town was to be built in a corn- 
field twenty miles west to be called Prairie View. 
So he went to an ignorant Indian, who didn't know 
anything, and offered him thirteen thousand dollars 
for forty acres adjoining the proposed town site. The 
Indian accepted the offer, and everybody abused San- 
derson for cheating a poor Indian. They said San- 
derson having had the benefit of public schools and 
civilization and newspapers was an intelligent and 
learned man and that therefore he should not have 
robbed an ignorant Indian who had never had any 
advantages. 

For two or three years Sanderson was held up to 
public scorn because of the transaction and there was 
a good deal of talk about his tainted money. One 
pastor refused to accept a donation from Gus be- 
cause of the transaction with the Indian, and the 
pastor was generally praised because he was high- 
minded. 

But the boom at Prairie View did not develop as 
was expected. The land is not now worth half what 
Sanderson paid for it. There is now indeed some 
sympathy for Sanderson and people say it was a 
shame for a smart Indian to rob a fool white man. 

—62— 



TOM HARRISON 

Old Tom Harrison, who was very old, very poor 
and lately rather weak-minded, died last night. 
There was not a dissenting voice. We all said, "He's 
better off." 

Usually in case of a death many say, "It's too bad." 
But the decision was unanimous in old Tom's case. 



—63— 



JUDGE TERRY 

When Roscoe Terry, the lawyer, came to town we 
somehow knew he expected to be called judge, and so 
he has been known ever since. He is quite old now, 
somewhat deaf and being cared for by his children. 
Having long been a widower he has no wife to talk 
to and is alone a great deal, so his children pay the 
hired girl an extra dollar a week to listen to him 
politely while he settles things and criticizes what he 
reads. The hired girl is a Swede and doesn't under- 
stand half he is saying. A man doesn't care to quit 
expressing his opinions because he is old. The 
Swede girl is wise enough not to reply to his argu- 
ments, so he soon settles the questions he discusses 
and goes off to read and find something new to be 
indignant about. 



THE WITTWER BOYS 

We have in this town a lodge known as the Central 
Protective Association. It originated among the 
farmers to discourage horse stealing, but nearly all 
the town men joined as a means of getting country 
trade. The meetings of the association are mainly 
devoted to oyster suppers in winter and ice-cream 
socials in summer and the initiation. The members 
do nearly everything to those who join. 

The work is supposed to be secret, but a smart 
country boy can describe the ceremonies of nearly 
every lodge in town. So the Wittwer boys, Doc and 
Orrie, knew what they were about when they con- 
cluded to become members. 

Word went round quietly that the Wittwers were 
candidates on a certain night and they were given the 
full works with a few extra touches, as the Wittwers 
were known to be waggish themselves. 

When the exercises were finally over the Wittwer 
boys were called on for speeches in order to have 
more fun with them. Doc Wittwer was called on 
first and said he liked the order well enough, but that 
it seemed to him the Wittwers had been given the worst 
of it; that his name was second on the list of candi- 
dates, but he was compelled to wait in the anteroom 

—65— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

three hours before being called out. He also ex- 
pressed the opinion that the Wittwers were about as 
good as some others; that their notes were as highly 
regarded at the bank and their trade as much sought 
after at the stores. 

Orrie Wittwer also talked — without being called 
on. He shared his brother's resentment. Orrie 
Wittwer was rather more reasonable than his brother 
and was finally pacified by the president, but Doc 
Wittwer continued to talk about what he called a 
raw deal. The president said he was certain no dis- 
respect had been purposely shown the Wittwers, but 
Doc said disrespect had been shown them — and quite 
gratuitously, he thought. When the president said 
they were now all brothers Doc replied that the presi- 
dent should have thought of that when the Wittwers 
were being mauled by nearly a hundred others. Doc 
frankly confessed he was ill-natured and not likely to 
get rid of it soon. 

Harvey Stone, an old member, finally interrupted 
and said with some heat that as the new member did 
not seem to be satisfied why didn't he get out. 
Whereupon Doc Wittwer replied that possibly there 
was a gentleman present who could or would attempt 
to put him out. 

The president wildly waved his arms and demanded 
order; he called on all present to remember their 
pledges, for it seemed there was not only a gentleman 

—66— 



THE WITTWER BOYS 



present who thought he could put Doc Wittwer out 
but who was actually advancing for that purpose. 

The scene of merriment was thus suddenly changed 
to one of terror, for Doc Wittwer put his right hand 
behind him and warned Harvey Stone to keep his dis- 
tance. But as Mr. Stone did not keep his distance 
Doc Wittwer pulled a long pistol and firedc Harvey 
Stone fell, the lights went out and the shooting be- 
came general. 

Clarence Bradford thought he was the first brother 
to get out of the hall, but when he reached the street 
found that Henry Ward had preceded him, found the 
city marshal and was coming back with that official. 
Harvey Stone, whose business it was to fire blank 
cartridges at the floor when the lights went out, says 
he hit Tom Hart, who seemed to be crawling, with a 
paper wad, and then when he fired in the air to avoid 
hitting any other brother hit Sam Stevens, who seemed 
to be flying. 

It was all a joke. The Wittwer boys were getting 
even, but the old members did not know it and 
threaten to file charges against the new members. 



—67— 



AUNT MAHALA 

I heard today of the death of one of the most re- 
markable women I ever knew — my Aunt Mahala. 
This worthy woman spent her life in visiting round 
among her relatives. And she was unusual in this: 
Before they were ready for her to go at one house 
there was clamouring for her at all the others. The 
great event at our house when I was a boy was the 
arrival of Aunt Mahala, and though she did not have 
much herself she always managed to bring something 
for every member of the family. The older ones 
loved her as well as the children and no one in all of 
our vast connection ever tired of her. She always 
had dates a year ahead. 

Aunt Mahala had no rights that she cared to assert 
and for that reason she enjoyed more rights than any 
woman I ever knew. She was willing to sleep on a 
pallet on the floor, but always had the best bed in 
the house. There was not a man in all our con- 
nection that would not take his team from the plough 
during the busy season and go after her. 

Aunt Mahala was a great lover of children. I 
remember that when she went to visit at Uncle John's 
or Aunt Lib's I heard soon after that there was a new 
baby at their house. Aunt Mahala was so fond of 

—68— 



AUNT MAHALA 



children that she always wanted to be the first to 
welcome them. If any of the grown people in the 
family met with an accident or had a severe sickness 
they were never satisfied that everything possible was 
being done until Aunt Mahala arrived and cried 
softly for a moment beside their bed. Then she 
would remove her things and in half an hour the 
patient would be much better. Whatever the trouble 
was, Aunt Mahala knew what to do. I used to think 
that whatever respect the neighbours had for our fam- 
ily was on account of Aunt Mahala. The neighbours 
wanted her to visit them, but we never could spare 
her. 

The letter informing me of her death said she went 
to bed in her usual health one night and was found 
dead in the morning. That was always Aunt 
Mahala's way — she never wanted to make trouble. 



—69— 



MARIE TAYLOR 

We began hearing of Marie Taylor's art when she 
was seven years old. At that early day she 
could play a piano pretty well and many of us were 
compelled to listen when we didn't care for it. Not 
that she wasn't good — for a child — and from that day 
to this we have heard about the place she is entitled 
to fill in the musical world. 

Old Henry Taylor, her father, never took so much 
interest in Marie's art as did his wife, who was almost 
crazy on the subject. But old Henry somehow man- 
aged to raise money to pay for her lessons. When 
her piano teacher gave a recital we were all expected 
to buy tickets, because our town had never before had 
a prospect of occupying a position in the public eye, 
and we ' knew Marie would play at least twice her- 
self and once with the teacher. 

When Marie was seventeen we began hearing that 
she really should have better instruction, as she had 
outgrown all the teachers at home; and then came 
the occasion when tickets sold at a dollar each. Not 
many were present for one cause or another, but Marie 
got off for the city. When she came back we were 
all expected to be interested in the improvement she 
had made under Bagalowski, who came home with 

—70— 



MARIE TAYLOR 



her and played at her concert; and really we couldn't 
see that he was very much better than Marie. Indeed, 
he was reported as saying that she should go abroad, 
which she soon did, her mother going with her. 

The going-abroad concert was not much of a suc- 
cess either. When the Taylors were leaving the hall 
they were all ill-natured and old Henry spoke sharply 
to his wife as Maria, though we had all been given to 
understand that Marie had been named for her 
mother. 

There was considerable sympathy for old Henry 
Taylor, because of the manner in which he slaved and 
saved to pay the expense of the trip abroad. Doc 
Filson even went so far as to say that though most of 
the girls round town took lessons they knew when 
to stop. !; 

At the end of a year old Henry Taylor moved away. 
We were at liberty to believe he was going to Paris, 
where his daughter was succeeding with her art, but 
he never said where he was going. 

We found out a few years later. Marsh Edson, 
who made a trip to Oklahoma to look at land, ran 
across them in a little town there, and Marie was 
giving lessons, charging fifty cents an hour because 
she had studied abroad. 



—71- 



BILL HALL 

A man named James T. Oliver, who advertises in 
the papers that he will raise money for various un- 
necessary public enterprises for a per cent of the col- 
lections, lately appeared here with the avowed pur- 
pose of raising ten thousand dollars in seven days. 

Oliver called on Bill Hall and found him busy, 
but Oliver impudently demanded that Mr. Hall listen 
to him. Hall was angered by this unusual demand, 
but finally suspended business as the nervy agent re- 
quired. Hall listened patiently while Oliver made 
his talk and then asked: "May I now say a word? 9 ' 

Oliver grudgingly consented and Hall said: "In 
the first place, I will give you nothing. In the second, 
I want to tell you that I regard you as the nerviest 
adventurer I have encountered in many years. You 
depend upon your impudence, of which you have a 
disgusting supply, to carry you through; and I wish 
to add that if you are not out of this office in two sec- 
onds I will give you a whipping you will long re- 
member. I have been annoyed by adventurers of 
your type until I am fighting mad." 

"Remember, sir," Oliver said, "that there are ladies 
present." 

—72— 



BILL HALL 



Oliver has two women helpers and these were with 
him. 

"My remarks refer to them as well as to you," 
Bill said. "I am glad they are present to hear what 
I have to say." 

Oliver replied with extracts from his biggest talk 
and Bill hit him. Oliver struck back and Bill wiped 
the floor with him in spite of the screams of the lady 
assistants. Then Oliver was led to the door and 
thrown into the street. He spent five days in a hos- 
pital and says he will sue Bill for fifty thousand dol- 
lars damages. 

The local paper in speaking of the affair said: 
"Without discussing here the right or wrong of Mr. 
Hall's action, it is only fair to say that it seems to be 
very popular. Mr. Hall is receiving hundreds of 
letters of congratulation." 

I don't mind confessing I sent one of those letters. 



—73— 



JOHN DAVIS 

There is no better young man in town than John 
Davis. He is polite, reliable and reads good books. 
Indeed When he went on his wedding journey he took 
a Bible with him. 

It was a praiseworthy thing to do, but many people 
laughed over the incident. Indeed, some of the 
young people say they heard the bride herself laugh 
about it. 



—74— 



HON. MARTIN HOLBROOK 

Ten years ago Martin Holbrook was a member of 
Congress and has been proud of it ever since. But 
people do not remember his efforts in their behalf. 
About all they say of his experience at the Capitol is: 

"You wouldn't think that man had been in Con- 
gress, would you?" 



—75— 



ANS WHITCOMB 

When I was a boy thirteen or fourteen years 
old Ans Whitcomb, the tombstone man, asked me to 
drive out in the country to see if Squire Newcomb 
would take a monument they had been dickering over. 
It seems the old squire wanted the monument- — if at 
all — by the twenty-eighth, the anniversary of his 
wife's death, and as Ans talked to me on the four- 
teenth he had to know about it, as several days would 
be required to cut the dove and the lettering. So he 
said he would give me a dollar and let me take his 
horse and buggy if I would drive out and see. 

Squire Newcomb didn't say in so many words that 
he wouldn't take the tombstone; he said he would 
see Ans about it, or something else that made me be- 
lieve in connection with my friendship for Ans and 
my optimism that it would be all right. 

I didn't like to have Ans waste his dollar or return 
from a fruitless errand, so my reply caused Ans to go 
ahead and finish the tombstone. I felt a little queer 
when I saw him working on it, but I was always too 
optimistic and really believed the old squire would 
take the tombstone after the design they had talked 
over was complete. 

—76— 



ANS WHITCOMB 



It turned out that Squire Newcomb had actually 
bought a tombstone of another agent before I went out 
there, and I felt so mean about it that it was a relief 
when Ans moved away. I was never able to see him 
without feeling guilty, though I was really only op- 
timistic when I deceived him. 

The experience taught me a lesson. I cross my t's 
and dot my i's now in conversation as well as in let- 
ters. I am neither optimistic nor pessimistic. 



-77— 



MART TO WNE 

I once knew a man named Mart Towne, who was 
wasting away with illness. Meeting him one day, I 
suggested a remedy. 

"I can't try your suggestion for some time," he 
replied in a weak voice, "so many others are in 
ahead of you." 

Hie man died before he got round to my remedy. 
Here was a man who had had good advice for years, 
yet he grew thinner steadily and finally died with a 
great stock of good advice on hand he had been un- 
able to try. 



—78— 



SARAH BROWNE LL 

Sarah Brownell lately procured a divorce from her 
husband and they had quite a time making charges 
against each other, indicating a rough-house continu- 
ing several years. 

Yesterday I was on the streets and by accident fell 
in behind Mrs. Brownell and Milt Ward, a well-known 
old bachelor. 

Mrs. Brownell was displaying all the womanly arts 
of fascination, and the exhibit was interesting to me, 
when I remembered some of the testimony in the 
divorce proceedings. Mr. Brownell swore among 
other things that his wife hit him with a skillet. 

But how gentle she was to Milt Ward! How pret- 
tily she looked into his eyes! There was art in her 
smile — in every action. 

And Milt Ward was as gallant and interested a 
gentleman as I have ever seen. Unless he wants to 
break his resolution not to marry so long as his mother 
lives he'd better quit going with that woman. 



—79— 



TOM MARSH 

I suggest that the old saying be changed to "Every- 
thing is fair in war," and leave love out of it. Cap 
Wilson, the warrior, says he killed a man at Gettys- 
burg and maybe several others he doesn't know about. 
He is not only forgiven but there is talk of making 
him county treasurer. 

But it is different with Tom Marsh, the lover. 
Every one is picking on him so persistently because 
of a recent love affair that instead of talk of electing 
him to office there is talk of putting him where the 
dogs won't bite him. 



—80— 



JIM SEARLES 

When James Hadley Searles first came to town he 
stopped at the Pierce House and paid the regular 
rate, which was two dollars a day. We heard he 
was a college graduate and a lawyer and represented 
Eastern capital, but in two weeks he moved to Mrs. 
Hampton's boarding house and paid six dollars a 
week. 

At first Mr. Searles wore his best clothes all the 
time, but at the end of a couple of months he put 
on an old suit and opened a law office of one room 
in Scully's Block. After that a good many called 
him Jim and everybody knew he didn't represent 
much Eastern capital. 

A young fellow named Henry Longfellow Marsh 
came to visit Jim the following spring and it was said 
round the boarding house that they talked a good 
deal of their old college days and of the pranks they 
used to play. They also sang several songs nobody 
else knew. 

"I suppose I ought to have a college education," 
Bill Hillman, one of the other boarders, said pri- 
vately, "but a good many get along without it." 

That comforted others, for Jim made such a spe- 
cialty of his college education that learning was rather 

—81— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

more unpopular than it would otherwise have been. 
He brought the first news of Keats and Shelley to our 
town. Some of us had heard of Dante and tried to 
read the Divine Comedy, but in wondering why it 
was called a comedy gave it up. 

Jim put in his letter at the Presbyterian church; 
he said that was the thing to do in getting acquainted 
in a little town, but a good many knew he was not 
strict. Indeed, he hinted that if he cared to he could 
controvert a good deal the minister said, and one time, 
when some of the young men sent to the city for a 
bottle of whisky, he gave them to understand it was 
no new thing to him. But otherwise he was guilty of 
no particular devilment and was well behaved, though 
his talk always had the sarcastic tinge common with 
highly educated men who do not succeed very well. 

When rather old Jim married Amanda Wheeler, the 
school-teacher, who also had a college education, and 
they had three children, Matthew, Mark and John, 
who also felt their superiority. They kept two cows 
and, having a surplus of milk, the children peddled it 
round the neighbourhood. 

Bart Wherry, the other lawyer, who continued to 
have most of the law business, never liked Jim very 
well and once, when he found that his wife was tak- 
ing milk of Searles, said: "If he ever makes me mad 
I'll quit taking milk of him and starve him to death." 

—82— 



SANDY MCPHERSON 



Sandy McPherson, the barber, says he charges five 
dollars for shaving a dead man because he is com- 
pelled to throw away the razor he uses. But how do 
we know he throws the razor away? 



—83— 



JOE BUSH 

Joe Bush, who travels for a city house but lives in 
this town, had occasion to make a trip of eighteen 
miles on a Sunday night. For the purpose he hired 
an automobile and a driver. 

Along the road the headlight of the machine dis- 
played a number of Scriptural texts painted in large 
letters on a farmer's barn. The driver was not cer- 
tain about the road at this point and Joe went in to 
inquire. 

He found the farmer and members of his family 
engaged in a religious service and Joe was invited to 
take part, which he did. When they engaged in 
prayer, which the farmer led, he bluntly criticized 
Joe for travelling Sunday night. Then there was sing- 
ing, and at the end of the second hymn the farmer 
invited Joe to lead in prayer. 

Joe was brought up in a Christian family and, 
though he had never before led in prayer, he was a 
little mad because of the manner in which the farmer 
had talked about him and he accepted the invitation. 

Joe approached the throne of grace so devoutly that 
the farmer frequently cried "Amen" to express ap- 
proval. But as Joe warmed up he began criticizing 

—84— 



JOE BUSH 



the farmer for lack of charity. He asked the Lord 
to soften the hearts of hypocrites and others who 
thought too much of themselves and finally closed by 
expressing the hope that at the last great day the most 
unregenerate and impudent might be saved. 

The prayer over, they sang another hymn, and then 
the farmer wanted to pray again to answer Joe, but 
Joe said he was in a hurry to make a train in the next 
town and departed after shaking hands all round. 



—85— 



CLEVE HUNT 

Cleve Hunt, a Baptist, is going with Mary Harris, 
a Presbyterian. They are engaged, but delay mar- 
riage because of their differences in Christian doc- 
trine. One Sunday Cleve goes to the Presbyterian 
church with Mary and the mean way in which he 
looks about has attracted attention: a good many 
folks are now going to the Presbyterian church simply 
to be amused at the way Cleve registers disgust 
throughout the services. 

The next Sunday the crowd goes to the Baptist 
church, where Mary Harris registers disgust and con- 
tempt for everything Baptist. Church attendance in 
the neighbourhood has greatly increased because of 
the row. 



—86—^ 



MICHAEL HAFFERTY 

Michael Rafferty, who lives in Chicago, is visiting 
his sister, Mrs. Maggie Kelley. Mr. Rafferty finds 
it dull here, as there are only women in the house 
where he is visiting. They say Mr. Rafferty's yawn, 
as he sits on the porch of his sister's home in the 
evening, is something artistic as an expression of be- 
ing bored. 



—87— 



JOE WE LLS 

Joe Wells' sister Susan, who married well and is 
living in Chicago, is visiting her brother. The other 
day one of Ben Hewling's little girls was playing with 
the Wells children and saw Susan smoking a cigarette. 
The child was greatly shocked and, hurrying home, 
said to her mother: "When I go down town I intend 
to tell a policeman." 



—88- 



TOM HARPER 

I lately met Tom Harper. He has been married 
only three months, but I have never seen a more 
wretched-looking man. 

"What is the matter?" I asked. 

He made no reply except to reach in his pocket and 
hand me a paper. It was a dentist's bill for seventy- 
three dollars for fixing his wife's teeth. There is a 
good deal of talk about the incident. Mrs. Harper's 
parents knew her teeth needed a good overhauling 
when she was at home. Why did they put it off? 
Some of the men say Mrs. Harper's father should pay 
the bill. 



—89— 



ASBERRY MORTON 

The day Asberry Morton was elected to Congress 
from the Fifth District there was a good deal of quiet 
satisfaction all over town; not that we expected he 
would be able to do much for us, but his election was 
a tribute to an excellent man we all highly esteemed. 

Asberry was not a genius, but a good steady citizen 
and neighbour who for a quarter of a century had en- 
joyed an excellent reputation. People liked his wife 
and children, too, for Asberry had made a success 
as a husband and father as well as a merchant and 
citizen. 

His nomination for Congress was a compromise, 
but his election was expected, as he stood well all over 
the district and his party had a commanding majority. 

The evening after the election Tom Harris gave a 
dinner in Asberry's honour. Only a few of his more 
particular friends were invited. After dinner the 
husbands smoked in the dining room, while the wives 
retired to the front room, where they talked about 
whatever interested them. 

Asberry expressed much satisfaction because of 
the good friends he had, and of the compliment paid 
him late in life. Being the guest of the evening he 
was permitted to do most of the talking. This op- 

—90— 



ASBERRY MORTON 



portunity caused him to tell a reminiscence of his 
early life. 

There were four listeners to the story, and Asberry 
began it by saying: "Four of the five best friends I 
have in the world are present tonight, the fifth being 
my wife, and I feel like making the confession to you 
I made to her long ago. When I came to this town 
and opened the Bargain Store the other merchants 
said I was a tramp, and should be taxed so heavily 
that I would move on without opening my goods; 
but I have been here twenty-five years, and shall prob- 
ably remain as long as I live. I have a lot in 
the cemetery for six, and it happens that I have a wife 
and four children. My sons and daughters do not 
seem to be wanderers, and all of us will probably be 
buried here. 

"Before I came to this town I lived in a place of 
about the same size, and was a storekeeper there, as I 
have always been here. I inherited the business from 
my father, as I did the house in which I was born. I 
was entirely alone in the world, my parents having 
died in middle life. I knew every one in the town, 
and as there had been no more against my family 
than there is against the average of respectable people 
I was accepted everywhere and lived the usual life 
of a fairly worthy and prosperous young man. 

"Up to the time I was twenty-nine I had four love 
affairs — that is, I was engaged to that number of 

—91— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

girls, but in one way and another I separated from all 
of them without more harm than comes to any good 
girl who is engaged to be married to a man if the 
engagement is broken. 

"After my fourth love affair I supposed I would 
remain a bachelor. The people did not think of me 
as a marrying man, and so when I began calling on 
Mary Ward at intervals it was an affair of the kind 
known as platonic, a term I have never quite under- 
stood. She knew I was rather old and rather fickle, 
and apparently did not expect any special attention, 
but after going with her two years we naturally and 
unconsciously drifted into a situation where we both 
accepted marriage as a probability of the future. 

"But in spite of my genuine affection for Maiy 
Ward I fell in love again. 

"It is an uncomfortable confession to make; but 
in spite of the fact that I loved Mary Ward sincerely 
I fell in love with Mary Howard, a little country girl 
whose people traded with me. And I acquired the 
habit of going to see her, without any intention of 
being unfair to any one. And finally, in the vague 
way common in love affairs, she came to understand 
that I intended to marry her, as I would have done 
cheerfully had it not been for Mary Ward. 

"Since I am old and this affair is all in the past 
I will confess I loved both of them; both were neces- 
sary to my happiness. I could not give up either. 

—92— 



ASBERRY MORTON 



"It happened that the two girls did not know each 
other, as one lived in town and the other in the coun- 
try. So I strolled over to see Mary Ward every Tues- 
day night, and drove into the country every Sunday 
to see Mary Howard, usually taking supper with the 
family and remaining until bedtime, when I would 
sneak home. I resolved to break with one or the 
other, but it disturbed me to think of either as the 
wife of another man. Besides, neither gave me the 
slightest excuse, not knowing I wanted it; so I gradu- 
ally got in a little deeper with both. As a rule coun- 
try girls are more jealous than town girls, but Mary 
Howard was as gentle as I could wish, as was Mary 
Ward. For a wonder, neither ever heard of my per- 
fidy, and both treated me with the consideration a 
good woman lavishes on the man she expects to marry. 
I was always rather reserved about my love affairs, 
and the people did not make me much trouble. But 
I appreciated my own meanness, and worried about it. 

"From going to see Mary Ward once a week she 
somehow arranged that I should call twice a week. 
I knew there was bound to come a clash, but finally 
went to see Mary Ward every Friday night, as well as 
every Tuesday. And in the same indolent way I 
found myself at Mary Howard's home in the country 
every Wednesday night in addition to every Sunday 
night. And I remained late at both places; to con- 
fess I was in need of sleep was to confess all, or con- 

—93— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

fess lack of affection, and I felt no lack of that for 
either. 

"Finally neither could understand why I did not 
wish to see her at least every other evening, so my 
health as well as my conscience became involved. 
Lack of sleep caused me to become nervous and I 
frequently pretended illness as an excuse to remain 
at home and secure the sleep I so much needed. I 
actually did not look well, and both Mary Ward and 
Mary Howard were greatly concerned about me. The 
result of it all was I was seized with an illness, which 
worried them greatly, as it did me; for I knew the 
sword hanging over my head was becoming heavier, 
and that the thread suspending it was greatly worn. 

"During my illness I received pretty notes from 
both of them, and both expressed a wish to see me, to 
do something for me. But I hurriedly replied by 
trusted messengers that I had every attention, which 
was the case. The elderly widow who kept house 
for me had been in our family since I was a child, and 
was very capable and kind. But I feared that Mary 
Ward and Mary Howard might come to see me, and 
meet. 

"This was what actually happened; this is why I 
am in this town, a runaway, though there is actually 
nothing against me except that I had two love affairs 
at the same time. It is fortunate the opposition 
papers did not hear about it during the recent cam- 

—94— 



ASBERRY MORTON 



paign; I spent many a sleepless night because of the 
fear that they might. 

"One evening when my illness had been relieved 
by rest and sleep, and when I was much better, except 
my guilty conscience, the door of my room quietly 
opened, and Mary Ward came in. She was all in a 
tremor, and her devotion would have pleased me ex- 
cept that I feared Mary Hov/ard would do the same 
thing. 

"Mary Ward explained that she was so worried 
that she could no longer remain away, and that her 
mother had at last consented to her coming; she felt 
sure the people would not object since they knew we 
were to be married. So she took off her hat and said 
she intended caring for me until I recovered, express- 
ing the hope that her determination would meet with 
my approval. 

"You know some things are going to happen before 
they happen; I knew Mary Howard was liable to 
come in, and she did. 

"I had said almost nothing to Mary Ward when 
Mary Howard came in, and Miss Ward explained to 
the strange woman, with coolness and good breeding, 
that she was my promised wife, and felt it her duty 
to care for me in spite of conventions. 

"I knew there was only one thing for me to do, and 
I did that; I went out of my head. And when Mary 
Ward appealed to me to verify her statement I pre- 

—95— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

tended to be unconscious, and she called the house- 
keeper. 

"Also the doctor. He was a wise old scout, a par- 
ticular friend of mine, and when he came understood 
the situation, I think. I think the housekeeper also 
suspected the truth, and what they did to bring me 
back to consciousness didn't hurt, nor did they send 
out a general alarm. 

"Though I had my eyes closed and pretended to 
be out of my head I knew what was going on; I knew 
that Mary Howard accepted what Mary Ward said 
as the truth. I knew that she rose, and with as much 
coolness and good breeding as Mary Ward had shown 
said I was a family friend ; that she had merely called 
to inquire how I was, at the request of her parents. 
Then she quietly departed. 

"Though I realized that I had terribly hurt and 
wronged Mary Howard her action was the most agree- 
able thing that ever happened to me; my election to 
Congress was a trifle compared to what Mary Howard 
did for me. The long-expected blow had not fallen; 
I was free, without humiliation or difficulty. 

"I soon rallied as a result of the restoratives given 
me by my friend the doctor, and Mary Ward's devo- 
tion was really beautiful. I appreciated it, too, but 
could not forget the greater service Mary Howard had 
done me." 

After looking at the floor for a time as if in deep 
—96— 



ASBERRY MORTON 



reflection Asberry continued: "I married one of 
those girls. Which one do you think I selected?" 

We all refused to guess, pretending that we pre- 
ferred to hear the end of the story; but I had an opin- 
ion, and the others confessed to me later that they 
had, and we were all wrong. 

"I very easily persuaded Mary Ward," Asberry 
continued, "that though I appreciated her interest in 
me it was best for her to return home, as I was im- 
proving; and she did this so quietly that the incident 
was never known. 

"At first I felt that Mary Howard did not greatly 
care for me. But the more I thought of it the more 
I appreciated her dignified behaviour and her action 
in rescuing me without scandal from a very bad situa- 
tion. I soon recovered from my illness, and went 
to see Mary Ward, who seemed to have no suspicion 
whatever of the true situation. She was indeed more 
agreeable than ever, and I loved her more devotedly 
than before. I suggested marriage earlier than we 
had intended, which was agreeable to her. 

"I had feared gossip about the affair, but it never 
developed ; I was free. But all the time I was think- 
ing of Mary Howard. How was she taking it? 
What did her folks think? Apparently they had no 
ill will, for they came to the store as usual, though 
Mary herself never came. 

"It is getting late, and we should join the ladies, 
—97— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

therefore I will shorten the story. I wrote Mary a 
note, asking for an interview. She did not reply for 
a week, but at the end of that time consented to see 
me. I told her everything as candidly as I have told 
you. In addition, I said I could not get along without 
her. She confessed the same thing to me, and I re- 
sumed the old situation — going to see Mary Ward 
one evening, and Mary Howard the next. Finally I 
could think of but one way out of the difficulty, so I 
sold out quietly, ran away with one of the girls, and 
appeared here. What became of the other? I know 
no more than you do. I have avoided news from my 
old town." 

Asberry stepped into the front room while we were 
looking at each other in astonishment, and returned 
with his wife. 

"Mary," he said to her, "I have been telling these 
gentlemen that I love every white hair in your head, 
and that you have always been a good wife to me." 

Mary patted her husband's arm gently, and then 
said gaily: "Come out and tell the girls that! r 

And they went away together, to the front room. 
We followed, and heard Mary say he was the best 
man the Lord ever let live. 



-98— 



BEN BRADFORD 

Ben Bradford, known to be a little gay, says the 
first time he kissed a woman other than his wife, he 
felt as sneaking as he did when he first began buying 
of Montgomery Ward and Co. But Ben gradually 
became hardened, and many say he now trades with 
Sears-Roebuck, too. 



—99— 



PETE ROBIDOUX 

In the early days Pete Robidoux operated a gen- 
eral store away out on the frontier, where the railroad 
ended on the prairie. Late one night a party of rough 
men brought a horse thief into the store, and told Mr. 
Robidoux they intended to hang him. 

The weather was cold, and after members of the 
party had dined on cove oysters, crackers, cheese and 
jerked buffalo meat, some one suggested that they 
warm up a little. Thereupon whisky was procured, 
and the entire party began drinking. The prisoner 
joined in the festivities and seemed to enjoy himself 
as much as any one. By midnight all the members of 
the party were drunk and good-natured; but they 
knew what they were there for, and told the prisoner 
that they still intended to hang him. 

The prisoner tried to argue his captors out of the 
notion, and they wrangled for an hour with him; they 
wanted to make him admit that they were right in their 
determination to hang him, but he was stubborn and 
contended that though he had taken the horse it really 
belonged to him, and he could prove it. 

But he failed to prove it to the satisfaction of those 
concerned, and at one o'clock in the morning they all 
staggered out, carrying a rope, but all very noisy and 

—100— 



PETE ROBIDOUX 



good-natured. In ten minutes they came back saying 
they could not find a telegraph pole suitable for a 
hanging; they had really found a pole, but no one 
could climb it to get the rope over the arms. 

Some one then suggested that the prisoner be shot, 
as the night was very cold for a hanging. But no 
one cared to shoot him in cold blood, and it was then 
suggested that they all take a shot at him at the same 
time. 

This execution could not be arranged, either, so 
one genius had a happy thought, and asked the pris- 
oner to shoot himself. The man who had the happy 
thought said the members of the lynching party were 
all good citizens with families, and hated to have 
blood on their hands, which could be avoided if the 
prisoner would be reasonable. 

Whereupon the prisoner said that much as he ad- 
mired his new friends, and respected the majesty of 
the law, he did not care to go that far, So they kept 
on drinking, and arguing with the prisoner that since 
he was to lose his life anyway he might as well be a 
good fellow and shoot himself. They said they had 
fed him, and given him his turn at the jug every time 
it was passed, which he admitted; but he was stub- 
born and said he could not see his way clear to oblige 
them. 

By four o'clock in the morning they were all asleep 
on the floor of the store, on buffalo robes. When 

—101— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

they woke it was eight o'clock in the morning, and the 
citizens stirring; so an hour later the members of 
the party rode away, and Mr. Robidoux never heard 
what became of the horse thief. All Mr. Robidoux 
knows is that he went away with his captors, and was 
still arguing that though he took the horse it belonged 
to him, and he could prove it. Also, that the sugges- 
tion that he shoot himself was unreasonable. 



-102- 



BILL HARMON 

During the winter days, when there isn't much to 
do, a favourite gathering place for the men is Bill Har- 
mon's harness shop. It was Bill's habit to make up a 
stock of harness in advance for the spring trade; so, 
though busy in winter, he was able to talk while he 
worked and enjoyed the idlers who made his shop a 
meeting place. 

And Bill was a good talker and had ideas. He 
had been discussing for years the questions of the day, 
and picking up a fact here and another there had 
accumulated a fund of information that was really 
unusual. Of all the talkers who gathered at his shop 
not one was so good as Bill and they all quit when he 
began; a rare tribute, for men usually interrupt to 
express their own ideas. 

When the bond election came on Cap. Stabler went 
privately to Bill and suggested that he deliver a public 
speech against the bonds. The railroad had imported 
a lot of paid orators, and they were having an in- 
fluence. Cap. Stabler and Bill and most of the regu- 
lars at the harness shop were opposed to the bonds; 
and Cap. Stabler urged that Bill make a speech. 

"I've heard you talk for years," Cap. said to him, 
—103— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

"and I know you can sway the people. None of these 
paid hirelings of the railroad can equal you." 

Bill said he couldn't talk in public; that he had 
thought of it, and cold chills ran all over him. 

"Don't expect it of me, Cap.," Bill said; "I'd like 
to make a speech and have an influence in the com- 
munity; I don't deny I've often thought of it, but 
you'll have to excuse me. If I should attempt to 
stand before an audience I should die of fright." 

But Cap. Stabler kept at Bill, and one day he 
promised. So Cap. got out bills announcing a citi- 
zens' meeting at City Hall, when the important issues 
of the day would be discussed by able speakers. 

Nate Somers, who played solo alto in the band, was 
opposed to the bonds, too, and one of the regulars at 
Bill's shop; and being let into the secret said he be- 
lieved he could get the band boys to turn out for 
nothing. 

The night for the speaking came on, and a tre- 
mendous crowd was present; Nate Somers had 
coaxed the band boys to turn out for nothing, and 
they played four of the town favourites outside the 
hall and two more inside. 

Cap. Stabler and Bill went in early, and Bill sat 
down in the front row, while Cap. took a seat on the 
platform; he thought a good deal of his own ability as 
a talker, so he often made himself chairman of a meet- 
ing without any action on the part of those present. 

—104— 



BILL HARMON 



After there had been a round or two of stamping 
and clapping, indicating that the people were impa- 
tient to hear the able speakers promised. Cap. Stab- 
ler stepped to the front of the platform and said a 
crisis in the town's affairs had arisen, that certain 
corrupt influences were showing themselves and that 
an able speaker was present to warn the people. 

"I refer, fellow citizens, 9 ' Cap. concluded, "to a 
citizen you all know and respect; a gentleman of in- 
telligence and ability to express his thoughts; a man 
whose words are respected by those who know him. I 
take pleasure in introducing Colonel William Peyton 
Harmon." 

The people all knew Bill Harmon, but they did 
not know Colonel William Peyton Harmon; so they 
cheered and applauded and were anxious to hear the 
new man; they had long ago become tired of the regu- 
lar town orators and wanted to hear arguments they 
had never heard before. 

Cap. Stabler noticed that Bill was sitting on the 
front seat with his head bowed on his breast, but that 
he made no move to take the platform. So Cap. went 
down and spoke to him; touched him. 

He was dead; scared to death. 



—105— 



DOC ROBINSON 

I have noticed that the people take as much delight 
in praising a worthless man as they take in abusing 
a respectable one. People say Doc Robinson, the 
town drunkard, was once a noted surgeon in London; 
that he was engaged to a beautiful young lady of 
New York, but gave her up because his parents ob- 
jected, and thus went to the dogs; that he has the 
best education of any man in town; that he is a man 
of fine intellect; that he is a younger son of a titled 
family in England, and that when his brother dies 
he will become a duke. 

I looked Doc up and discovered that the only not- 
able thing that ever happened in his life was that 
he attended a veterinary college in Canada, where he 
was born on a farm and where he lived until he came 
to this country to make horse liniment, the basis of 
which, alcohol, he sweetened and drank, and thus be- 
came a drunkard. 



—106— 



JIM SHIELDS 

Doc Shields attended the recent Firemen's Ball 
without his wife; and, what is more, his wife was at 
home sick; so sick, indeed, that the neighbour women 
were compelled to go in and sit with her while her 
husband was dancing. The women at the ball knew 
Mrs. Shields had been very poorly for several months 
and did not welcome Doc; but Maria Dunlap, who is 
old and plain, accepted an invitation to dance with 
him. 

While they were engaged in a waltz Maria thought 
it only polite to inquire about Mrs. Shields, so she 
asked: "Mr. Shields, how is your wife?" 

Doc is not a real doctor; they call him that because 
he once bought a drug store, and failed; and as he 
whirled in the dance Doc replied to Maria's question 
about the condition of his wife: "She is a very sick 
woman. I don't believe she'll live till morning." 



—107— 



BEN THOMPSON 

When Ben Thompson married Alice Hurley he was 
forty-one years old, and Alice twenty -nine. The dis- 
parity in their ages caused people to make a complete 
investigation, and those were the official figures: 41 
and 29. But within a year people began exaggerat- 
ing Ben's age upward, and Alice's downward, and 
this they have kept up until I heard this week that 
Ben was sixty when he married, and Alice nineteen. 



—108— 



JERRY SHACKELFORD 

Many years ago a man named Jerry Shackelford 
lived in a lonely house in the woods south of town. 
His wife asked him one afternoon to get an armful of 
oven wood; she was baking and wanted wood to heat 
the oven of the eookstove to the best advantage. But 
he delayed going, and his wife finally spoke to him 
sharply, as her bread was ready to bake. Jerry was 
very sensitive, and the reproof made him so mad that 
he went out of the house, and for fifteen years noth- 
ing was heard of him. 

His wife continued living in the old house, and the 
neighbours told the story of the runaway in whispers. 
They noted that through every night a light burned 
in the window, as though inviting Jerry to return. 
Mrs. Shackelford loved her husband as much as wives 
usually do; the trouble was that Jerry was more sen- 
sitive than most husbands. 

One cold blustery night as Mrs. Shackelford sat 
with her feet in the oven of the eookstove, to keep 
them warm, the front door opened and Jerry walked 
in carrying an armful of oven wood, which he de- 
posited in the wood box behind the eookstove. 

Mrs. Shackelford was glad to see her husband and 
welcomed the chance to make up, but she thought she 

—109— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

should in some way indicate that his long absence had 
been unusual and improper, so she said: "Well, I 
will say you have been a long time about it!" 

That made Jerry mad again, he was so sensitive; 
so he went out of the house again and has never been 
heard of since. 



-110— 



CAP. HANSEN 

When the rebellion broke out Cap. Hansen 
promptly enlisted and came back a captain. 

Cap. Hansen was such, a hard worker that he had 
no time to acquire an education, so about all he knew 
of the classics was the saying, "Beyond the Alps lies 
Italy," though after the war he was occasionally heard 
to say, "All quiet along the Potomac," and prob- 
ably knew in a general way from hearing it talked 
about so much that Byron awoke one morning and 
found himself famous. 

Cap. Hansen somehow found time to marry and 
had a large family of children, all of whom he sent 
to college as they became old enough, but continued to 
work very hard himself. When he felt tired or dis- 
couraged he quoted his favourite saying, "Beyond the 
Alps lies Italy," and that seemed to make him feel 
better. 

There never was a better man than Cap. Hansen, 
but people finally began laughing at him, he worked 
so hard. They said he was an old fool, and criticized 
him because he did not get something out of his 
money. After passing seventy he began to get out of 
shape; his hands were crooked from toil and there 

—111— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

was a stoop in his shoulders. It was pitiful to see 
him hurrying about, feeble and old. 

Cap. Hansen finally crossed the Alps and reached 
Italy and the age of seventy-nine. There was a con- 
test over his will, in which one faction in the family 
contended that he had been crazy twelve years; the 
fact also came out that he had worked so hard to make 
money that he had neglected what he had, and there 
wasn't a great deal to quarrel over. 



—112— 



HENRY WULFBURGER 

What citizen of this town is most highly spoken of? 
Henry Wulfburger, the iceman, who is so polite and 
capable that no one can get his customers away from 
him. He isn't very good looking and not a fastidious 
dresser; but he delivers ice promptly and puts things 
back in the refrigerator as he found them. 

Henry Wulfburger owns one of the best homes in 
town, and they say he receives a salary so large that 
nothing is said about it before the other employes of 
the ice plant. Who do you suppose will be manager 
of the ice plant and the big iceman of the town in a 
few years? Everybody knows it will be Henry Wulf- 
burger. 

Henry manages to do some good as he goes along. 
Nate Salsbury is his assistant on the ice wagon. 
Nate comes of very shiftless native stock, but Henry 
Wulfburger is making a man of him. If the people 
will keep out of it Nate will be saved; there is some 
grumbling because Nate gets only six dollars a week 
and works long hours; but the young man is learning 
more than the ice business. He is learning industry, 
politeness, honesty and efficiency from the example of 
Henry Wulfburger. Nate will get more wages in 
plenty of time; the other iceman will attend to that 
in case his present employer neglects it. 

—113— 



GEORGE PENDLETON 

George Pendleton came to town twelve years ago 
and opened a grocery store. He has always been a 
selfish man, and the other storekeepers at first laughed 
at him; but he turned out to be capable and they soon 
began abusing him. He was a tremendous worker, 
and instead of joining the local trust and making just 
a living he went after business and made money. 
Many of the storekeepers were becoming careless. 
George Pendleton caused them to straighten up. 
There was a gentlemen's agreement among the mer- 
chants, and their prices were too high. George 
Pendleton reduced prices and brought trade to town 
from a larger area. We had stores about which 
people grumbled; now we point to them with pride. 

All this good was accomplished by a selfish man 
who had no other ambition than to make money. He 
gave liberally to every worthy object — really as an 
advertisement for his business and to make friends; 
I have heard him grumble at some of the hold-ups — 
but his main object was to make money. He built a 
business house, and a good one; his rivals followed 
his lead. He built a residence; his rivals followed 
him again. He felt the need of better facilities for 
doing business, and got th&m, incidentally benefiting 

—114— 



GEORGE PENDLETON 



the town. He was a temperate man, and some of his 
rivals who had been drinking too much reformed. 
He was a polite man, and his rivals, who were a little 
brusque, recovered. 

I know of no man who has actually done more for 
the town than George Pendleton. 



-115— 



COLONEL ANDY MILLER 

When I went downtown in the morning I heard 
Colonel Andy Miller was dead, and everywhere dur- 
ing the day his death was discussed. Most of the men 
agreed he was the best citizen we had; I have heard 
them say the same thing of other friends who have 
died within the year, and there was a good deal of 
enthusiasm for a monument over his grave, to be built 
by public subscription. 

In the evening I went to Colonel Miller's house. 
Mrs. Potter was there, and I was glad to hear that 
I was not expected to see Mrs. Miller, who was pros- 
trated with grief. 

Three or four other men came in, and we discussed 
the colonel's life. All of us remembered some inci- 
dent that seemed appropriate, which we told in low 
voices. In the room adjoining the one in which we 
sat was the body, packed in ice. The dripping of the 
water was very disagreeable. 

After we had discussed the colonel I noticed that 
there was a disposition to discuss the mystery of 
death. Every one said something, and we all ex- 
pressed the sentiment in about the same way; there did 
not seem to be anything new to say on the subject. 
Most of the callers said they would willingly stay all 
night if necessary, but added that they would rather 
not if other arrangements could be made, and gave 

—116— 



COLONEL ANDY MILLER 



various excuses. It turned out that Mrs. Potter in- 
tended staying; it was unnecessary for any of us to 
remain. 

The colonel and Mrs. Potter were not friends dur- 
ing his life, but she seemed to have charge of the re- 
mains. I was told that she arrived at the house a 
few minutes before Colonel Andy's death. Mrs. 
Potter is usually present when there is a death in the 
town, and takes charge of the funeral. The under- 
taker goes to her. and she arranges about the pall 
bearers. When she is not in the room where the 
body lies she is upstairs with members of the family, 
where few are admitted. If anything is wanted Mrs. 
Potter gets it, and if a question is to be decided she 
decides it; first consulting with the family, I suppose. 

It was an unworthy thought but it occurred to me 
that Mrs. Potter enjoyed being there and taking charge 
of everything. She is of little importance at any 
other time, and disappears from public view after a 
funeral, but we all hear of her again as soon as there 
is another death. She rarely visits any home until it 
is generally agreed that a sickness will prove fatal, 
and her coming nearly always sets the members of 
the family to crying; they know it will not be long 
before death enters the house. Mrs. Potter does not 
like me, but I feel sure that when it is agreed I cannot 
live many hours longer the front door will open 
quietly and Mrs. Potter will come in. 

—117— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

In a small town most people attend funerals as a 
mark of respect, and I nearly always meet Mrs. Pot- 
ter; she doesn't seem to like people until after they 
are dead. She was married before she came here, 
hut no one knows what became of her husband. 
Everybody would like to know whether she left him 
or whether he left her or if he is dead, but we are 
afraid to ask. 

At funerals Mrs. Potter directs who shall enter the 
first carriage, who the second, who the third, and so 
on. After all is arranged to her satisfaction she en- 
ters a carriage herself, and is the first to arrive at the 
grave; she must be there to arrange things. She 
knows what must be done with the floral emblems; 
some are taken back to the house and others are left 
at the grave. She remains to see the grave filled up, 
all the others driving away as soon as the coffin is 
lowered and the services are over. 

Colonel Andy Miller was a prominent man, aggres- 
sive and successful, but there was always something 
about his family life that didn't suit the women. 
Though it was understood that the colonel and his 
wife didn't get along, no one knew much about the 
particulars. He had a mean way of talking about 
marriage that gave notice that he wasn't very well 
satisfied with his own, and was a cynic about women — 
another mark of a dissatisfied husband. When the 
colonel and his wife were with others he had a sharp 

—118— 



COLONEL ANDY MILLER 



way of saying things directed at her in a distant way; 
and she seemed timid, as though fearing he might 
begin a tirade against her in public. People who 
passed the Miller home late at night told of hearing 
violent quarrels. Their two daughters were married 
and living in a distant state, and very much to the sur- 
prise of every one it was announced that they would 
not be able to attend their father's funeral, owing to 
illness. 

Mrs. Miller had a few friends, women who were 
not very popular themselves, and who seemed glad of 
a chance to get into the big Miller home, with its 
lavish furniture. Mrs. Miller had told these women, 
and somehow the story gained circulation, that she had 
never had any peace except when the colonel was 
away in the army. He made money and got along 
in the world, but seemed to hate his home because 
his wife was in it. When their daughters were mar- 
ried the Millers made much of the weddings and en- 
tertained lavishly, but Mrs. Miller dressed like the 
furniture in the house, the women said, and com- 
mented on it when they returned home. The men 
accepted the colonel, and he was a man among men, 
but somehow the women balked at Mrs. Miller, but 
without saying much about it. 

At the funeral Mrs. Miller remained upstairs dur- 
ing the services, with Mrs. Potter. The house was 
full of women and the yard full of men, but the 

—119— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

absence of any member of the family in the room 
where the services were held provoked the unspoken 
comment which frequently goes round on serious oc- 
casions. I knew that few women had been upstairs 
to see Mrs. Miller, and that these were those who had 
themselves been neglected by society. 

When we were ready to start for the cemetery Mrs. 
Potter, who had charge of everything, waved me into 
the carriage in which Mrs. Miller rode. 

On the way Mrs. Miller looked steadily out of the 
carriage window without speaking; she was going over 
her life, it seemed. When we stood beside the grave 
she didn't look at it or at the coffin or listen to the 
service; she was looking at the hazy distance through 
her black veil, trying to decide why Andy and the 
neighbours didn't like her. 

When we rode slowly home Mrs. Miller was still 
silent and still trying to solve her problems. At fre- 
quent intervals she took a long breath in the peculiar 
way which indicates a cessation of weeping; she 
seemed hard and bitter, as though thinking of what 
she might say in her defence if her husband were 
not dead. 

Reaching her house I assisted her to alight, and 
she staggered a little as we went up the walk. Mrs. 
Potter opened the front door and met her; they dis- 
appeared together, and I returned to my neglected 
work. 

—120— 



BUD MOFFETT 

In the river hills west of town seven out of ten 
farmers' wives bake biscuits three times a day. Bud 
Moffett, a young farmer from that section, went to 
the city to accept a job. But his health soon became 
poor; in the course of six months many said he was 
crazy, and there was much worry about him in his 
old neighbourhood when he returned. 

His grandmother after looking at him said: 
"The trouble with the poor boy is he has been eating 
light bread." 

So they gave him hot biscuits three times a day, 
and he recovered. 



-121— 



MILT SAYER 

People used to say Milt Sayer was naturally mean 
and that his father was mean before him. The Sayers 
have lived here ever since the town was started and the 
very old men say Milt's grandfather never paid any 
attention to the city ordinances either. City or- 
dinances are intended mainly to regulate strangers, 
anyway, and Milt Sayer took pleasure in violating 
them. In fact, that was about the only pleasure he 
did take, for he never went anywhere except to trade 
for something that would annoy his neighbours. He 
once traded for a mule, though he had no use for it 
except that it brayed all night and made the neigh- 
bours mad. The neighbours complained to the city 
marshal, but he couldn't do anything — at least he 
never did. Whenever a citizen had a grievance it 
was easy to induce the city council to pass an or- 
dinance to suppress it, though it never did much good. 

Most people kept chickens and let them run at large, 
which was against a city ordinance, but they mostly 
kept a mixture which was mainly inoffensive. Milt 
Sayer made a specialty of Langshans. The roosters 
of this breed almost shake the earth when they crow 
and have hoarse voices which are very disagreeable 
at midnight and just before day. Milt kept twice 

—122— 



MILT SAYER 



as many roosters as he needed in a barnyard cluttered 
up with old wagons and buggies he never used. In 
the barn he nearly always had a pup that cried all 
night, and the water bonds were defeated largely 
because Milt favoured them. 

There wasn't a man in town who hadn't threatened 
to go to Milt and ask him outright why he was so 
mean, but no one ever did. So he drifted along like 
other people, except that his wife and children talked 
meaner about him. Usually a man's wife and chil- 
dren suffer a good deal before they talk about him to 
the neighbours, but Milt was so notorious that nearly 
every time the school children came home they had 
something new to tell about Milt they had heard from 
the Sayer children. He choked their mother, they 
said, and though no marks were ever seen the people 
liked to repeat these stories. Milt was the favourite 
town bad man and every time people sat on their 
porches in the evening they began the gossip by in- 
quiring if he had done anything new to rouse their 
indignation. 

Ed Harris used to say Mrs. Sayer could hold up her 
end in a row with her husband, though it was the cus- 
tom to say Milt was very rough with his wife. Ed 
said that early one morning just at daylight he went to 
the depot to catch Number 58, the flyer. It didn't 
stop regularly, but usually took water at a tank a 
hundred yards above the depot, and Ed ran the risk 

—123— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

of catching it, as he was anxious to get up to the 
county seat early and return home on 38, the accom- 
modation train. Ed says he heard Milt and his wife 
quarrelling as he passed their house. 

"And believe me/ 5 Ed used to say, "the madam 
wasn't getting the worst of it!" 

Because of her trouble with her husband Mrs. Sayer 
was very bitter about women not being allowed to 
vote. 

It was known Mrs. Sayer had been to see Lawyer 
Ege, who, the people used to say, took divorce cases 
free for the pleasure of hearing the particulars first 
and telling about them. 

The particular meanness that caused Milt's wife 
finally to rebel was never known. He had been guilty 
of so much that maybe it was an accumulation, but 
anyway after Mrs. Sayer had told the women for 
years that she would not stand it another moment she 
actually went to Lawyer Ege and said she wanted 
a divorce. 

Lawyer Ege acted very mysterious, as though he 
relied on some particular evidence he knew about that 
none of the rest of us did, but he never told anything 
we hadn't heard for years ; and when the case actually 
came up, and a good many went to the county seat 
to hear the evidence, they didn't learn anything new. 
Mrs. Sayer took the stand and told the old stories, 
but Milt wasn't present — he had told his lawyer not 

—124— 



MILT SAYER 



to resist — and didn't seem to care what his wife told 
on him. 

They hadn't much to divide; about everything Milt 
had was mortgaged to the bank, and all Mrs. Sayer 
got was enough to take her and the children to some 
relations she had back East. In accusing Milt of be- 
ing stingy people used to say he was rich, which made 
the story better, but he really hadn't anything to speak 
of. Lawyer Ege made a complete search, but found 
little. Mrs. Sayer always thought she would get a 
good deal of alimony, and Lawyer Ege had promised 
her at least forty dollars a month to live on. But 
Lawyer Ege couldn't squeeze blood out of a turnip 
and about all Mrs. Sayer actually got was freedom. 
She said her relations had always wanted her to leave 
him and that she only hesitated because of the chil- 
dren. Besides, she feared that if she ever left Milt 
he would go to the devil. 

But Milt didn't miss his family as much as Mrs. 
Sayer thought he would. He took some of his meals 
at the restaurant, but mainly lived at home. He 
turned the mule in on the mortgage, as mules were 
high that year, and got rid of his hogs, as he said that 
living alone he could buy bacon cheaper than he could 
raise it. The money he gave his wife he had raised 
by increasing the mortgage on his house and, to the 
surprise of everybody, he paid the interest. As he no 
longer had children he got rid of pups and one day 

—125— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

shot his dogs because they had eaten his big Langshan 
roosters. Altogether Milt improved and was better 
natured. He was even known to attend the band con- 
certs at City Park and once he called on a neighbour 
in the evening to sit a while. A few of the neighbour 
women, knowing he must long for home cooking, in- 
vited him to an occasional meal and he acted politer 
than they expected he would. 

Two of the older boys came to see their father in 
course of time and, to the surprise of everybody, re- 
mained with him. Mrs. Sayer occasionally wrote to 
her old neighbours asking if Milt had gone to the devil 
yet, but he actually seemed to be travelling the other 
way. He even went to the banker and arranged to 
send his former wife a small allowance. He wasn't 
compelled to do this, but said he was better satisfied 
to do it. 

The improved manners of Milt Sayer actually be- 
came the talk of the town during one hot-weather 
period when there was a lull and porch parties talked 
of little else that summer. He had always paid his 
debts after a fashion, but he became prompt and an 
old junk shop he owned started to make money. 
There was even a contest between the banks over his 
account, and when the State Savings won over the 
First there was some criticism of the methods em- 
ployed by the winner. One day a man who knew 
Milt rather better than the rest of us said to him: 

—126— 



MILT SAYER 



"I suppose that now you are single you'll be taking 
notice again." 

But Milt didn't seem to be amused. He became 
serious and said something about his better nature 
being roused. People didn't understand that remark 
for a time, but admitted it was true. Wherever he 
went you saw one or both of his sons and they im- 
proved as much as their father. Both were doing well 
in school and during the summer vacation they worked 
round the junk shop. 

It was along in the winter following the summer 
when Milt was the town's sensation and about a month 
after he said his better nature was roused when he 
did the most surprising thing. He arrived one eve- 
ning on 38, the accommodation train, accompanied by 
his former wife, to whom he had been remarried the 
day before. About all he would say in explanation 
was that he thought he would like it rather better that 
way; and after that people dropped him, except that 
they watched narrowly to see how the experiment 
came out. Some thought they would get along all 
right since Milt's better nature had been roused, but 
others had their doubts. 



-127- 



WALT WILLIAMS 

Will Marsh went into Walt Williams' grocery and 
bought a sack of apples. Walt not only helped Bill 
eat them but invited every one who came in to have an 
apple out of Bill's sack. Walt has been the victim of 
tasters for years, and was getting even. 



—128- 



BELLE DAVISON 

The school-teacher, Miss Belle Davison, very gentle, 
womanly and popular, reached forty-three without a 
love affair, and was a credit to her admirable sex in 
every way; few had ever lived in the neighbourhood 
who were equally liked. 

But one day a scamp of a fellow began paying her 
attention, and she became madly infatuated with him ; 
she ran after him as madly as a girl of seventeen 
ever chased a sweetheart; she violated her own rules, 
one after another, and the neighbours were shocked. 

Not that she actually did anything wrong; the 
astounding thing was that she fell violently in love, 
and was as sentimental and foolish as a girl. It was 
pitiful, tragical; and the scamp upon whom she lav- 
ished her affection didn't appreciate it, but married 
another woman. Belle Davison is so thin and un- 
happy now that meeting her on the street is as de- 
pressing as a funeral. 



—129— 



ANDREW HACKBARTH 

Most of the old-timers came to this county in 1854, 
when the land was opened to settlement. Among the 
number was Andrew Hackbarth, a likable man, except 
that he did not get along with his wife. We heard he 
had been a member of the legislature in the older 
country he came from; and we knew he was a worker, 
though the trouble with his wife bothered him and 
rendered him quiet. 

I never knew what their differences were, though 
I can attest Andrew was a very decent man during 
the many years I saw him nearly every day. But his 
wife told the most terrible tales about Andrew. I 
have been hearing hard tales about men all my life; 
Mrs. Hackbarth's assortment on her husband was the 
worst of all; there was no viciousness of which she did 
not accuse him. He never said anything in reply, 
and about all people ever knew was that, so far as 
they could see, he was a good man. 

Andrew's wife finally left him, going to a distant 
state. But she would not give him a divorce, though 
she often came back, usually appearing first at the 
county seat, where she began some sort of suit against 
him. Then she would appear in his neighbourhood, 
and tell her stories on Andrew. What pleased her 

—130— 



ANDREW HACKBARTH 



most was to meet him at church or other public place 
and tongue-lash him, but Andrew never said a word; 
he took it all, and hoped she would go away. Which 
she finally did, greatly to the relief of everybody ; but 
within a few months we would hear again that she was 
in the county seat consulting her lawyer. 

This kept up until both were old and worn out. 
Then she died, and we heard they had a daughter with 
whom the mother had been living. Then the daughter 
commenced annoying Andrew with suits, as her 
mother had done, but this was finally settled by the 
daughter's coming to live with Andrew. 

The daughter had never married, and was about 
fifty years old when she appeared to care for the 
father in his old age. Some were suspicious from 
the first; they said she looked like her mother, and 
acted like her. 

Andrew lived in a six-room house all on one floor, 
and the first night the daughter was there she noticed 
that Andrew slept with the window curtain of his bed- 
room up. The daughter said she thought it was a 
peculiar way to do; that she always put down the 
curtain when she went to bed. 

Andrew patiently explained that he was accus- 
tomed to that way of doing; that he was an old man, 
and somewhat restless, and liked to look out at the 
stars while lying in bed at night, before going to sleep. 

He thought that would satisfy her, but when he 
—131— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

awoke next morning his curtain was down again. 

This provoked Andrew, who was honestly trying to 
get along with his only remaining relative, as was his 
duty; so he said to his daughter that his curtain being 
up needn't bother her, she was at liberty to sleep with 
her curtain down if she liked, and should be satisfied. 
He therefore hoped she would let his curtain alone. 

But she didn't; next morning Andrew's curtain was 
down; she had slipped in after her father was asleep, 
and lowered it. 

The controversy went on a month. Every morning 
Andrew's curtain was down, and Andrew pleaded with 
his daughter to let him have his way in just one thing. 
He said he had submitted to a good deal from his 
womenfolks, and begged for peace. But the daugh- 
ter was determined that the curtain in her father's 
bedroom should be lowered at night, and at last he 
drove her out of the house. 

She went to the county seat and promptly began 
another lawsuit, which continued so long and was so 
expensive that Andrew was ruined. Both have been 
dead several years; I bought their quarter at the ad- 
ministrator's sale, and added it to my land. 



-132— 



JOE STEVENS 

We haven't a daily paper in our town, but really 
don't greatly miss one, owing to Mr. Stevens, the milk- 
man. In summer he delivers morning and evening, 
and there is little he doesn't know. Indeed we some- 
times think that, like the editors, he invents things on 
dull days, to interest his customers. 

And what wonderful experiences Joe Stevens has 
had ! He must have forty customers, but nothing ever 
happens to any of them he can't beat. Ez Hawkins 
caught two mice in a little dead-fall trap intended 
for one, and thought it very wonderful ; but when Mr. 
Stevens came round with the milk he didn't pay much 
attention to the incident; he said he had caught two 
mice repeatedly. So Ez started in to find something 
Mr. Stevens had never heard of. 

Mr. Stevens moved to town from the country, to re- 
tire, but didn't like idleness so well as he thought he 
would, and began selling milk. At first he sold to 
only a few, and packed it round, but after a while he 
was compelled to get a horse and wagon, and a boy 
to help him. 

But his wife liked idleness. Her ambition while 
on the farm had been to move to town and buy a sur- 
rey; and when she attained these two ambitions she 

—133— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

wouldn't go back to work; she said she had slaved 
enough. 

And the longer she was in retirement the stouter 
she became; people noticed, when she was out driving 
on Sunday, with the milk-wagon horse attached to the 
surrey, that she completely filled the back seat. Mr. 
Stevens drove, but was so small that many people 
didn't notice him and thought he was busy with the 
cows. 

Ez knew Mrs. Stevens wouldn't help with the cows, 
saying she had done her share; so after that when 
Mr. Stevens came with the milk Ez began telling about 
a wonderful woman who lived over on Mule Creek. 
She made nearly five hundred dollars a year, Ez said, 
with her chickens and cows, and turned it over to her 
husband; in fact, was glad to do it, as she wanted to 
help. 

Ez noticed that Mr. Stevens took an interest in the 
Mule Creek woman, so he quit talking about trifling 
things like catching two mice in one trap, and told 
about the woman who worked hard but always looked 
well in spite of it, and was cheerful and content. Mr. 
Stevens was a great talker, but was silent when Ez 
talked about the wonderful Mule Creek woman; it 
was almost indelicate, the interest Mr. Stevens took in 
the other woman. The neighbours knew about Ez's 
stories, and complained that he kept Mr. Stevens so 
long hearing them that they were compelled to wait 
for milk, and made breakfast or supper late. 

—134— 



JOE STEVENS 



The men in the neighbourhood were amused over 
Ez Hawkins' joke on Mr. Stevens; they, too, had heard 
him brag of having had more wonderful experiences 
in everything, so some of them used to go over to Ez's 
house Sunday morning and wait round until Mr. 
Stevens appeared at the kitchen door, when Ez would 
go out and tell him more about the Mule Creek woman. 
In fact, three of the men in the neighbourhood were in 
Ez's kitchen listening when Mr. Stevens finally con- 
fessed defeat. 

Ez told Mr. Stevens that the Mule Creek woman's 
husband went to town the day before to attend a lodge 
gathering, and that his wife told him to have a good 
time; not to worry in the least about affairs at the 
farm. Then she took the team and her two boys, Ez 
said, and put up four tons of hay. When the Mule 
Creek woman's husband returned home at night his 
wife had all the chores done and was dressed up to 
welcome her husband. She expressed the hope that 
he had enjoyed himself in town, and had an appetiz- 
ing lunch ready for him. 

This story greatly impressed Mr. Stevens and as he 
moved away from the kitchen door he said to Ez, 
in hearing of the three men in the kitchen: "Well, 
that beats my time." 



—135- 



GLADYS HART 

Until six months ago there lived in our neighbour- 
hood a beautiful creature we all called The Princess 
behind her back. Though apparently the daughter of 
George Hart and his wife Margaret, The Princess was 
very superior to her surroundings. The Hart boys 
worked, and were of considerable cash value to their 
father, but were never clothed in fine raiment as was 
their sister Gladys, who was also sent away to school 
one term, and spent her time when at home mainly in 
practising music lessons. 

Every one seemed to take pleasure in doing some- 
thing for Gladys Hart; I confess I did, and was 
ashamed of my ugliness and worldly habits when in 
her presence. 

We never knew much of the man she married, ex- 
cept that he came from a fine family and was an un- 
usually capable business man, considering his age; 
and I think this came from The Princess. But we 
never wondered that he fell in love with Gladys Hart; 
she was really beautiful and witty and superior. 

Everybody was expected to give a social function 
of some kind for The Princess, and we all did our 
duty promptly; we were as humble as George Hart 
himself when it came to giving her a proper send-off; 

—136— 



GLADYS HART 



the whole neighbourhood was disturbed during a busy- 
season. 

And what a fuss was made when she was finally 
married! George Hart couldn't afford the wedding 
he gave her, but there was no other way out; such a 
beautiful creature just naturally demanded a big wed- 
ding, and George submitted. It cost George and the 
boys a year's work at least, as the caterers and dress- 
makers came from the city; nothing came from our 
local trading point except the society reporters from 
the papers, who gave a rich flavour to everything they 
wrote of the affair. 

And how the women and girls worked in decorat- 
ing the church! Busy, hardworking men were ne- 
glected, and frequently prepared their own meals. 

The guests marveled a little at the bridegroom's 
kin ; they didn't live up to the advertising, but the wed- 
ding was finally over and The Princess departed for 
her new home, accompanied by the usual foolish- 
ness at the depot. 

But the manner in which The Princess dropped out 
of sight and mind after her marriage was the strangest 
thing I have ever heard of. I had supposed Mrs. Hart 
at least enjoyed the preparation for the wedding of 
her daughter, but a perfectly reliable woman informs 
me she heard Mrs. Hart express weariness and say, 
"Never again!" 

Another perfectly reliable witness testifies that the 
—137— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

Hart boys — John, Silas and William — said in the 
presence of their father that they were grateful to the 
bridegroom for taking The Princess off their hands; 
and they were not reproved. I myself heard George 
Hart say the day after the wedding, in presence of his 
wife, "What a relief!" 

For weeks before the wedding we heard of nothing 
but The Princess ; after it we heard almost nothing at 
all of her. Her parents and neighbours washed their 
hands of her, as the Hindus do. 

I often think it is a shame we do not all miss The 
Princess, and are almost glad to be rid of her; but she 
is not entirely blameless; she overloaded us when we 
couldn't help ourselves. 



—138— 



MRS. JOE BUEY 

Mrs. Joe Buey isn't seen in the stores once a month, 
and then she buys only calico and gingham and muslin 
which she makes up herself. After she appears on 
the streets the people feel uncomfortable for days — 
she looks so frail, overworked and wretched. People 
can't understand how any one is able to live and look 
as bad as Mrs. Joe Buey does. She has worn the 
same hat summer and winter for years and her ap- 
pearance gives one the queer feeling of hearing a 
strange noise and thinking maybe it is a ghost. 
People know there is no such thing as a ghost, but they 
used to think there was no such woman as Mrs. Joe 
Buey. 

It is generally said Joe treats her better than their 
children do. Joe is a teamster and works as steadily 
as work offers, but when not otherwise engaged he 
stays round home and helps his wife, which the chil- 
dren never do. The teacher once sent a Buey boy 
home from school, and next morning the boy's mother 
appeared, imploring the teacher to take him back. 
She didn't claim her son had been mistreated ; she just 
asked that he be given another chance, and was such a 
picture of woe that the teacher relented. When her 
baby is ill she is so poor that she is compelled to take 

—139— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

it to the doctor's office, and Dan Sayer says the most 
pitiful sight he ever saw is Mrs. Joe Buey carrying 
her sick baby to the cheapest doctor in town, as she 
knows she can't get credit anywhere else. 



—140— 



JOHN DAVIS 



A travelling man yesterday gave John Davis, the 
grocer, a twenty-cent cigar. John Davis has been 
selling cigars at his grocery store and smoking twenty 
years — and a good cigar made him sick. 



—141— 



TAYLOR WARD 



It is generally said certain mean men in this town 
should be chased out for the general good ; and Taylor 
Ward says that if the meanest men should be voted on 
all of us would get votes. 



-142- 



MARY RANSOM 

Now that I am getting to be an old fellow, I don't 
mind telling about my first love affair. When a man 
is young he denies he ever had any love affairs. He 
says he is still waiting for his ideal. I confess I 
found mine years ago. She was a school-teacher 
named Mary Ransom and the finest woman I had ever 
seen. I not only worshipped her in secret but openly. 
But a cloud came over our happiness — a man named 
Mendenhall. The teacher used to give me notes to 
take to Mendenhall, and I was torn between love and 
duty; I wanted the money she gave me to carry the 
notes, and I hated to do it. I redoubled my efforts to 
be nice to her, but Mendenhall won. She quit teach- 
ing school and went away to a distant town to live. I 
have never seen her since. 

They say a man soon forgets a love affair, but it 
isn't true. Last week a tall young man called on me 
and said his name was Fred Mendenhall; that his 
mother was Mary Ransom, my former school-teacher, 
and that she had asked him to call on me. I thought 
it was rather indelicate, sending her son in to see me. 



—143— 



CHARLEY GROVER 

In my neighbourhood there lives a family named 
Grover — the mother and father and five little children. 
Whether I am in my room at work or sitting on the 
porch, the Grover children are always in evidence, 
since they are very active and all through the summer 
play outdoors barefoot, which they regard as a great 
privilege, except that their mother pesters them about 
washing their feet at night. 

Their mother does not believe in letting her chil- 
dren bother the neighbours, so they are always at 
home, and other children play with them. They are 
the most natural, human youngsters I ever knew and, 
as they are healthy, they are noisy from the time they 
get up in the morning until they go to bed at night. 
Because of my open windows I know everything they 
do or say. When I waken in the morning the roar in 
the Grover yard is going full tilt, but I only smile at 
it, because I am fond of the Grover children. If I 
see company arrive at the Grover home I soon hear 
one of the children say to the mother: "Where are 
we going to sleep tonight?" And next day I hear one 
of the Grover children put this question: "When are 
they going home?" 

The Grover child that interests me most is Charley, 
—144— 



CHARLEY GROVER 



seven years old. One morning I noticed that Charley 
was in disgrace. His mother had dressed him in 
girl's clothes to punish him. This kept him in the 
house for a while, but soon he didn't mind the girl's 
dress and played out in the yard, where he was for- 
bidden to go. Then his mother took his clothes off 
and thought that would keep him in the house, but in 
a little while he was out playing with the other chil- 
dren, naked. 

By this time I was much interested in Charley's 
crime and made bold to go to the fence and ask Mrs. 
Grover w T hat Charley had done. 

Charley had told a story. I recommended to Mrs. 
Grover that she wash Charley's mouth with soapsuds 
and let it go at that, but she thought it best to keep 
Charley in the house until his father came home, when 
a family council would be held and Charley's fate 
decided. 

Mrs. Grover told me of Charley's disgrace. With 
some other boys he had gone to a pond in the neigh- 
bourhood and fallen in. When he returned home his 
mother asked him how his clothes became wet. And 
then Charley said he was up at his Aunt Hannah's and 
in getting a drink out of the well bucket had acci- 
dentally spilled some on his clothes. 

Charley had been warned not to go to the pond, and 
I feared it would go hard with him when his father 
came home. I have known Charley's father all his 
life, and though a good, steady man now he was 

—145— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

tougher as a boy than Charley is. You know how 
parents take on about a child who has told a story. 
We all tell them. But how we are shocked if children 
are caught at it. We say a great big black man or a 
policeman will get them. 

I asked Mrs. Grover to put Charley in my charge 
for half an hour and, as she knows I like the children, 
she let me have him, first putting his sister Maggie's 
dress on him. Then I led him over to my porch and 
lectured him. 

"Charley," I said, "I don't think it very wicked to 
tell a story, since I've told more of them probably than 
any other man in the world, unless it is your father, 
who is coming home presently to whip you. But 
there is a reason why you shouldn't tell stories and 
it is a very important one. Who told on you?" 

"Grandma Grover," the boy replied. 

"There you are," I said; "a woman told on you. 
And I venture to say that within an hour after you 
told this story you were caught." 

Charley corrected my figures — he was caught in 
twenty minutes. 

"That's the reason why you shouldn't tell stories — 
you are always caught and you are always caught 
promptly. The average with me has possibly been 
above twenty minutes, but I have always been caught. 
And it is usually the women who tell on me. Women 
are more truthful than men and boys and they seem 

—146— 



CHARLEY GROVER 



to take special delight in catching them in stories. I 
know you didn't like to worry your mother by ac- 
knowledging you had gone to the pond. Women 
don't know knee-deep from over your head. 

"You couldn't have been drowned in that pond if 
the other boys had thrown you in and sat on you. 
You knew that, but your mother didn't, so you should 
have told her the truth. You should always behave 
as well as possible, since that is really the easiest way, 
but above everything else don't tell stories. The rea- 
son I have already explained — you are always caught. 
Millions of boys are telling millions of whoppers 
every day, but every wretch is caught; if not by his 
grandmother then by his sisters ; if not by his sisters, 
then by some woman in the neighbourhood. Young 
as you are, you must have noticed the pleasure your 
mother, grandmother, sisters and the neighbour women 
take in catching you. But you will never know how 
a woman can actually enjoy herself until you marry 
and your wife begins catching you. Promise me you 
will never tell another and I'll do what I can to get 
you off. I see your father coming home to dinner." 

The boy promised, and we went over to his father, 
whose name is George Washington Grover, but people 
called him Wash. 

"Wash," I said, "our friend Charley is in trouble. 
The women have caught him in a story and they are 
waiting for you to whip him. Of course I know you 

—147— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

never told one, and I confess I am myself greatly 
shocked at Charley's conduct. But he has promised 
me he will never tell another, and if you will let him 
off this time I'll go on his bond." 

"Well," Wash said, "I'll go in and talk to mamma 
about it." 

And he led the boy away. I knew mamma was all 
right, and in a few minutes Charley appeared in his 
own clothes. 

The advice I gave Charley I give you. Don't tell 
stories, because the women will always catch you. 



—148— 



THOMAS LANE MONTGOMERY 

Bill Hart is a rich man, largely for the reason that 
many years ago he got the notion in his head that he 
wanted more land. 

That was his passion — land. He thought of it dur- 
ing the day, dreamed of it at night, and went in debt, 
paying out as fast as he could; and now he is rich. 
Bill's neighbour, Thomas Lane Montgomery, also had 
an ambition many years ago. It was to print a book 
of poetry. He finally succeeded, but his book was 
not profitable. A man who bought land in the early 
days could not avoid becoming rich, but there is no 
possibility of a man making money by publishing a 
book of poetry. 



—149— 



OLD GEORGE BENNETT 

Old George Bennett, who had been a local charac- 
ter for years, was found dead this morning in a 
wretched old house where he has lived alone for a long 
time. 

He had long been separated from his wife and she 
had made him a good deal of trouble, owing to some 
flaw in their settlement. She lived in Ohio with their 
only daughter, and every little while appeared here 
and started a new suit of some kind against him. 
And in addition she made the most terrible charges 
against him, which the neighbours repeated, though 
they themselves knew nothing against the man. He 
has never been a burden to any one. Somehow he has 
managed to get along. I frequently met him hob- 
bling to and from the shop where he worked at his 
trade. I inquired among his associates and they all 
spoke well of him. They gave him work when he 
was able to do it and said he was a good workman. 
For two or three years he had been aging rapidly and 
occasionally been ill. His wife died a year ago, and 
old George had had peace since then, but with it he 
had illness, old age and poverty. 

But he did not want for anything during his last 
illness. Six months ago his daughter, who lives in 

—150— 



OLD GEORGE BENNETT 



Ohio, came to see him. When she walked into his 
wretched home I heard he said: "Well, Mary, here's 
where your father lives." 

Just that — no complaint of neglect. And his 
daughter burst out crying. She had been hearing 
from her mother that he was rich and would do noth- 
ing for them because of meanness. 

His daughter was not well off herself, but she did 
a great deal to make her father more comfortable. 
And after she went away a number of us sent him all 
sorts of things and said they came from his daughter 
Mary. He had become almost blind lately and I pre- 
tended to read letters to him from his daughter enclos- 
ing money in my care and making suggestions for his 
comfort. The neighbour men did it, but old George 
will never know. And the kindness of his daughter 
Mary always pleased him. The women said they 
supposed the old wretch should be taken care of in 
spite of his meanness, but the men contributed without 
comment of any kind, except that they had known him 
many years and knew no harm in him. 

I shall always think less of gossip because of my 
acquaintance with old George Bennett. 



—151- 



GLEN BARKER 

Something must be done about the band. For four 
years it has been practising twice a week at the school- 
house, and at least that often Glen Barker has taken 
up a collection to pay for new horns, new uniforms, 
new drums and so on. 

Glen Barker doesn't play in the band. He is the 
manager and devotes a good deal of time to the posi- 
tion. He never meets a citizen that he doesn't talk 
band finances and intimate very broadly that the 
town has no pride and no enterprise. He says the 
band plays in other neighbourhoods and advertises us. 
His favourite expression is that the band has put this 
town on the map. 

"What?" the manager screams to all of us with 
pathos in his voice. "Let the band go to pieces?" 

Nearly every citizen is a craven coward, he has 
been abused so much for not doing more for the band ; 
though all of us have done as much as we could afford 
to keep the organization together. 

Last week the band played for the grocers' picnic 
and those present say its playing reminded them of a 
charivari. Instead of advertising us it causes us to 
be made fun of. We have long feared that the band 
didn't play very well, but it seems it can't play at all. 

—152— 



GLEN BARKER 



Glen Barker, the manager, said to one critic: "Why, 
our band has twenty-five men! Mighty few country 
bands have that many," 

To which the critic replied: "The larger a band 
like yours the worse it is. It wouldn't be near so bad 
if you had only seven or eight members." 

And how Glen Barker, the manager, has pleaded 
with us to make one more effort to keep the band up 
to its full membership of twenty-five! 

So we must do something about the band ; and I am 
of the opinion that the calamity long dreaded by 
Glen Barker, the manager, is imminent. 



—153- 



HARVEY KING 

Harvey King is hopelessly ruined at the age of 
thirty-six, though he comes of an excellent family and 
had every opportunity to become a useful and success- 
ful man. He attended school twelve years, but be- 
longed to mandolin clubs and the school fraternities 
and wasted so much time that he would have been 
better off had he been learning a trade. 

Soon after he became of age he married a good 
girl and was placed in charge of a profitable business 
through the influence of relatives, but he soon ruined 
it by neglect. He was given another chance, but this 
time he not only ruined the business by neglect but 
overdrew his account and was only saved from dis- 
grace by his relations raising a considerable amount 
of money. 

This has been his history ever since. He has been 
given opportunity after opportunity and neglected 
them all. 

Had this young man been brought up strictly as a 
boy he would have become a useful man, as his 
father was. But he was reared in the shiftless man- 
ner too common in this town and his ruin is the result. 

He had a very much better chance than the average 
and has made a failure because he was not properly 

—154— 



HARVEY KING 



controlled as a child. He did nothing until he was 
almost of age, and depended on his father. Finally 
his father died, and the modest fortune he left was 
soon dissipated under the management of an indul- 
gent mother. 

Harvey is bitter, but he has not been the victim of 
the slightest injustice. He has not lacked the widest 
liberty and opportunity. Indeed he was born with 
a golden spoon in his mouth in a golden age. He was 
kindly treated — too kindly treated. He had the ad- 
vantage of good schools and a good home. He is a 
wreck today because he was not properly brought up 
as a child. 



—155— 



VIC WALKER 

It was lately decided that Vic Walker would be 
better off in the insane asylum. I happened to be in 
the court room when he was brought in and first 
realized that people thought him crazy. I never saw 
quite so much astonishment as he displayed when told 
that the charge against him was insanity. 

"What?" he indignantly said. "Me crazy? 
Why, I know more than the rest of you!" 

I suppose we all have that notion — more or less. 



-156— 



GEORGE COLEMAN 

A committee of farmers from the Deer Creek neigh- 
bourhood lately investigated the city scales. The 
farmers have been noticing for some time that the 
city scales gave a little better result when they had a 
load of hogs to sell than the scales used by the buyer, 
so they had an investigation in which they invited 
George Coleman, the mayor, to assist. 

But it turned out all right. The members of the 
committee were fair and reported unanimously that 
the difference was probably due to optimism. 

George Coleman says the man who operates the city 
scales has no interest in a load of hogs except that 
he hopes the owner will get as much as possible for 
it. So he is liberal in giving his figures; he gives 
the farmer a shade the better of it, so far as he can. 

Same way when the farmer returns with his empty 
wagon. The city scales man makes the wagon weigh 
as little as possible, since it costs him nothing to be a 
good fellow. 

But it is different, George Coleman says, with the 
man who buys the hogs. He wants the load to weigh 
as little as possible and the empty wagon to weigh as 
much as possible, and by the time optimism has 
worked four times on one load of hogs there is a dif- 
ference in weight that is remarked by the seller when 
he compares the two tickets. 

—157— 



JOE WARD 

I was lately making a little automobile journey and 
met Joe Ward, a high-priced man. We were passing 
through the town of Centerville and stopped a mo- 
ment to inquire the road to Fairview. 

It happened that the man we addressed was Joe 
Ward himself, who said he was just about to leave for 
Fairview and would show us the way if we would 
give him a ride. 

So he sat beside the driver and turned round and 
told us about the farms we passed. He knew every 
farmer on the way; how his crops were turning out 
and many other interesting facts, for this man was a 
clerk in the New York Store in Centerville and had 
been so employed nine years. 

When we came to a crossroad he would say 
"Straight ahead" or "Turn to the right" to the driver 
and then tell us something of interest about his work 
in the New York Store. It seemed he was a very 
popular clerk; so popular, indeed, that the proprietor 
of the Boston Store, the principal opposition, had 
long wanted him. 

"But I said to him frankly," Joe Ward ex- 
plained, "if you get me you'll have to pay a man's 
wages. I'm no cheap skate. I was born over on 

—158— 



JOE WARD 



Cow Creek and no citizen of that neighbourhood would 
think of going to Centerville without trading with 
me." 

"Here," I thought, "is a very high-priced man." 

I began wondering how much would induce him to 
leave the New York Store. And he proceeded to tell 
us — he couldn't keep a secret. 

"Besides the pull I have on Cow Creek, my grand- 
father is the leading farmer out the Fairview way and 
everybody knows I control the best trade round Fair- 
view. So I says to Persinger, of the Boston Store: 
4 If you get me you'll get the best, but you'll have to 
pay me. I'm human like everybody else; if you 
pay me I'll work for you and do you all the good I 
can, but we might as well understand each other first 
as last — if you get me you'll have to pay me. I'm 
no amateur. If you get me you'll have to pay me 
twelve dollars a week.' " 

But it developed before we reached the next town 
that Persinger, of the opposition store, wouldn't stand 
an innovation like that, so Joe Ward got out at Fair- 
view and said he was going back next morning to re- 
sume his work at the New York Store. 



—159— 



EMANUEL STRONG 

Emanuel Strong is sick and probably won't get well. 
The thing that worries him most is his poverty. He 
has always made enough, but lived up everything as 
he went along and at his death his family will have 
nothing. He has five children to school and dress, 
and Emanuel and his wife have been so much devoted 
to them that they have not had much themselves. 
Three years ago there was an excellent opportunity 
for Emanuel to buy a business of his own, but he had 
no ready money and a banker picked up the bargain. 

When I called on Emanuel lately to see how he was 
getting along his wife surprised me by saying she had 
ruined her husband by living too well and too care- 
lessly. Emanuel always wanted to save, she said, but 
she paid too much heed to the demands of the children 
and everything they earned slipped away. I never 
before heard a wife make a similar statement. 



^-160— 



ED MARSH 

Ed Marsh married Maggie Woolson three weeks 
ago, and they went to live with Ed's mother, who is a 
widow and lives alone. This week Ed and his wife 
went to a home of their own. Yesterday I met Mrs. 
Marsh, and remarked that Ed and his wife had left 
her. 

"Yes," she said, "they thought they would be better 
satisfied in a home of their own." Then she thought 
awhile and added: "And me, too." 



—161— 



MRS. MARK THOMPSON 

What eventless lives most women lead! Mrs. 
Mark Thompson confesses that this was the only un- 
usual thing that every happened in her life: 

When a girl of sixteen she lived in a town in Iowa, 
and has never yet become entirely reconciled to a 
farm. In going to take her music lesson she was 
compelled to pass a boarding house where a number 
of students lived, and, as she passed, the students 
used to tap on the window. But she never once 
looked up. 

Mark Thompson cannot understand yet why his 
wife did not travel another street when on her way to 
take her music lesson. Possibly the good woman en- 
joyed her little adventure, and the consciousness that 
nothing could make her look up when the bold young 
men tapped on the window. 



-162— 



W. T. H A W L E Y 

Some men complain about the queerest things. 
W. T. Hawley, of this neighbourhood, does not like to 
be called Will; he says it sounds effeminate. Nor 
does he like to be called Bill. He says that sounds 
too rough. 



-163— 



LA WYE R BAILEY 

Some old maids do not seem to mind it, while oth- 
ers never get over being touchy. A single woman was 
lately grossly offended by Lawyer Bailey. She sold 
a piece of woodland to John Hart, and Lawyer Bailey 
drew up the papers in which he recited that the seller 
was single, as required by law. When she saw this 
she was very angry. "Everybody knows that," she 
said; "why bring up that old joke in a deed?" 



—164— 



GEORGE LAWRENCE 

Husbands have different ways of asserting them- 
selves. Some storm round and talk rough, usually 
about dry-goods bills, for there never was a husband 
who could understand why his wife needs so much 
voile. Probably most husbands jaw at their wives in 
private, but a few discuss their grievances at table in 
presence of the children. When a wife says to this 
sort of husband: "S-sh! It is no subject to discuss 
before the children," he will reply: "I don't care if 
they do hear." 

But George Lawrence regulates his wife very 
quietly. When anything goes wrong at his house he 
never says a word, but his right eyebrow goes up like 
a tent. After his eyebrow has been up a day or two, 
he takes it down again, matters having been regulated 
to his satisfaction. 



—165— 



MRS. JOHN HART 

Mrs. John Hart' s sister-in-law, Mrs. Mary Cain, of 
Indiana, came to visit her, and Mrs. Hart and Mrs. 
Cain went down town one pleasant afternoon to look 
at the stores. On the street, Mrs. Hart met a town 
woman she knows and talked to her quite a while. 
Mrs. Hart loves to talk, and the other woman is also 
noted for a perfect stream of conversation. Finally 
Mrs. Hart remembered her sister-in-law and looked 
round, with a view of introducing her, but she had 
gone! Mrs. Cain, it seems, became angry because 
Mrs. Hart did not introduce her to the town woman 
and, going to the station, took the first train home. 
Mrs. Hart looked all over town for her sister-in-law 
and was much distressed, but her husband doesn't 
mind it. He says his sister always was the touchiest 
thing that ever lived, and is rather enjoying his wife's 
efforts to make up. 



—166— 



GEORGE HART 

George Hart was loafing in his kitchen during a 
recent rainy day, when his daughter Mary said: 
"Mother's bread is ready to go in the oven." "Well," 
Mr. Hart asked her, "why don't you put it in?" And 
then the daughter laughed at him. "No woman ever 
permitted another woman to decide when her bread 
was ready to go in the oven." This amused George 
and he called upstairs to his wife: "Mary says your 
bread is ready to go in the oven. Shall she put it 
in?" "In just a minute," his wife replied. This 
amused Mr. Hart more than ever, and he watched 
developments. In five minutes his wife came down- 
stairs, looked at the bread critically and didn't put it 
in the oven for half an hour. "It's lucky," he said 
to his daughter afterward, "that we waited." 



-167— 



OLD MR. NEAL 



People probably live as long as they ever did. I 
believe old Mr. Neal is as old as Methuselah — if he 
would admit it. 



—168— 



BILL ALVORD 

Every two or three years Bill Alvord returns from 
the city to permit us to shake his hand and be proud 
of him because he has a job paying eighty-five dollars 
a month. But we're not so glad to see Bill as he 
thinks. After people haven't seen a man for three 
or four years they don't care if they never see him 
again. 



—169— 



MARTHA WENDELL 

Being an only child, Martha Wendell was notor- 
iously spoiled by her parents. She lately married 
Tom Mason, and as Tom comes of an old-fashioned 
family where the children were compelled to mind he 
refused to have a spoiled wife, so he insisted on cer- 
tain things and his wife carried them out. But she 
did nothing a wife should not have done. Indeed she 
became an object lesson to shiftless young married 
women, since she was useful, sensible and a good 
wife and home maker. 

But I wish you could have heard the fuss the neigh- 
bour women made! They said Tom Mason was a 
slave driver, though he asked nothing of his wife she 
should not have done, and she confessed to me only 
lately that she loves her husband and is happy. The 
bride's own mother says her daughter was spoiled and 
that her husband has made a woman of her. But 
the neighbours are not satisfied. 



-170— 



CHRIS HALLE CK 

The women won't believe it, but I once knew a wid- 
ower named Chris Halleck who didn't like to marry 
the second time. He did it, but the day of the wed- 
ding he looked as though he had been called upon to 
attend his own funeral. He loved his first wife, but 
something caused him to marry again. Maybe it was 
the fact that he had two little girls he could not prop- 
erly care for. He tried housekeepers, but couldn't 
get on with them and finally began going with another 
woman. He was married one evening without his 
little daughters knowing it. Then he returned home 
and spent the night with them. For hours he tried to 
tell them, and was afraid. But along toward morn- 
ing he screwed up his courage and told them, and they 
clung to him and sobbed and the father sobbed with 
them. 

I don't know that a man ever died of a broken 
heart — possibly no woman ever did either — but Chris 
Halleck died of something very much like it. His 
marriage proved to be a mistake. His second wife 
wasn't kind to his little girls and Chris couldn't stand 
that. 



-171— 



JOE ALLEN 

I celebrated my nineteenth birthday (said Joe Al- 
len) by enlisting in the First Vermont cavalry. We 
were in the Shenandoah valley, under Shields, in the 
spring of 1862, but later were merged into Pope's 
army, and suffered defeat with him at the second 
battle of Bull Run. 

After varying experiences as a soldier, which in- 
cluded Fredericksburg, one day we started to join 
Meade's army at Gettysburg. My impression is that 
we marched thirty miles beyond Gettysburg, and then 
marched back again, following Hampton's cavalry. 
There was a general impression among the men that 
a big fight was to take place soon, but we did not 
know where. 

Our corps approached Gettysburg on three differ- 
ent roads. I was in the middle column, and the first 
intimation I had of fighting, was encountering a field 
hospital, where there were two or three hundred 
wounded. We arrived on the battlefield in the even- 
ing of the second day's fighting, and it happened that 
I never saw the town of Gettysburg at all. 

We were at once moved around to the right wing of 
Meade's army, and, when we arrived there, struck 
Lee's left wing. There was a fight lasting until 11 

—172— 



JOE ALLEN 



o'clock at night, when the Confederates retired. 
Then we were moved to the extreme left of our army, 
a distance of twelve miles, arriving about day-break, 
just as the third day's fighting was beginning. We 
were immediately ordered to charge, and carry a line 
of hills, which we did, and took up a position in ad- 
vance of our main line. We remained there skirm- 
ishing until four o'clock in the afternoon, when word 
was passed that there was to be a charge. 

Little Round Top was almost behind us, and we 
charged away from it. There was a Texas regiment 
in front of us, lying down behind a stone fence, and 
we charged towards it, accompanied by three or four 
regiments of infantry. The firing was terrific, and 
the infantry wavered, causing a delay of the cavalry. 
We started at almost the same time that Pickett 
charged, and probably our charge was to draw off as 
many of the enemy as possible from the attack on 
Little Round Top. 

During the delay I have spoken of, and while the 
First Vermont cavalry was left almost alone in an ex- 
posed position, Kilpatrick, the division commander, 
rode up, and had some sharp words with Farnsworth, 
the brigade commander, who was leading us. I was 
close to them, and heard what was said; Farnsworth 
protested against the hopelessness of the charge, say- 
ing the First Vermont had been cut to pieces already, 
and that the men should not be sacrificed. Farns- 

—173— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

worth said he would lead the charge, but that Kil- 
patrick must take the responsibility. 

And then came the order: "Forward!" 

We rode at full gallop toward the stone wall be- 
hind which the Texas regiment was lying. The Tex- 
ans had ceased firing, and we knew they were waiting 
to pick us off at closer range. Our men tried to set 
up a cheer as we rode toward the fence at a furious 
gallop, but we could not do it: we were so wrought 
up from expecting the volley at short range. 

I saw the first man who fired: a young fellow on 
the right, and I heard an officer curse him for firing 
too soon. A second later came the volley, but nearly 
every bullet went over our heads, as we were charg- 
ing up hill. Then there was a cloud of smoke, and 
we came to a halt within a few feet of the stone fence, 
while some of our men in advance tore it down. It 
is a wonder we were not all killed, but the smoke was 
so thick that the enemy could not take accurate aim. 

Our men had only revolvers, and it seemed to me 
there were twenty musket shots to our one. I fired 
five times at a bunch of infantrymen ahead of me, but 
I do not know that I hit any of them. Finally I saw 
some of our men urging their horses through an 
opening in the stone wall, and followed. 

In five minutes we lost sixty-five out of 312 men. 
Every time a man near me was hit, I could hear the 
pat of the bullet. I saw several of my companions 

—174— 



JOE ALLEN 



cringe and start when hit, and a frightened look came 
into their faces. A young fellow I had known all my 
life was struck, and he was riding so close to me 
that he fell over on my horse's neck. I straightened 
him up in his saddle, and told him to hold on as long 
as he could, but he soon fell off on the other side. 
His place in the ranks was on my right, and his horse 
remained at my side throughout the charge. 

I had a pistol and a sabre, and fired the pistol as 
rapidly as I could, but I doubt if we disabled a dozen 
of the enemy altogether. They stood behind rocks 
and trees, and fired at us with deliberation and care. 
I chased one fellow who appeared in front of me, 
intending to cut him down with my sabre, but he 
jumped behind a tree, and I hurried on to join my 
companions. As I did so, I saw the man spring from 
behind the tree, and fire at me. There was the great- 
est confusion, but I heard his shot, and the thud of 
the bullet when it struck; he had fired at me, and 
struck my horse in the neck. The horse was a big 
bay called "Abe," in honour of the president; but he 
kept on going, and I supposed the wound was not 
serious, although it bled freely. 

We were gone an hour on that charge; we had 
passed entirely through the enemy's lines, and were 
compelled to cut through again to reach our own. 
I could liken it to nothing except getting into a 
hornets' nest. 

—175— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

It was while we were in this situation, riding at full 
gallop, that some one told me that General Farnsworth 
had been killed. 

We could only locate the Confederate lines by puffs 
of smoke. A clump of trees ahead of us would look 
quiet and peaceful until we came opposite, when out 
Would come puffs of smoke, and we could hear the 
whistle of the bullets. A friend of mine named 
Marv. Mason, who rode ahead of me, had his horse 
shot under him. The horse fell dead, but Marv. 
went over its head, and struck on his feet. He did 
not stop an instant, but kept on with the regiment on 
foot until he caught a horse, which he mounted, and 
rode safely into our lines. 

Somewhere during the charge, a man rode by me 
with his leg shot off by a cannon ball. Just above 
the stump some one had tied the sleeve of a coat, to 
stop the bleeding. I think seeing this man, with his 
pale, frightened face, is my most distinct recollection 
of Gettysburg. I could not tell whether the man was 
a Federal or Confederate. There were two men with 
him who seemed to be his friends, but the friends ap- 
peared to be as frightened as the wounded man, and 
riding as madly toward safety. 

At last we reached our old position, when we heard 
that Pickett's charge had failed. We remained quiet 
until dark, everything indicating that the battle was 
OVer ? when we were ordered to dismount in a meadow, 

—176 



JOE ALLEN 



and told to get some sleep. The heaviest rain I 
ever experienced was falling; I saw soldiers soundly 
sleeping that night who were half -covered with run- 
ning water. 

At four o'clock the next morning we were routed 
out, and ordered to saddle at once. Then I discov- 
ered that my horse was too badly wounded to go; he 
was very stiff, and could not get up. He was a great 
favourite in my company, and there were many expres- 
sions of regret when I was compelled to leave old 
"Abe" behind. But there were plenty of other horses 
without riders, as a result of the charge of the day be- 
fore, and we were soon on the move. When we rode 
away, old Abe was lying down, and I had no idea he 
would ever get up again. 

Private soldiers always manage to find out what is 
going on. We knew we were in pursuit of Long- 
street's corps train, and hurried all day toward 
Emmetsburg, without catching sight of the enemy. 
In the evening we halted for a few hours ; and while I 
was boiling coffee, I heard a cheer from some of our 
men, and who should come staggering into camp but 
old Abe! We gathered around him, and some fed 
him crackers, while others bathed his neck. 

When the bugle sounded to fall in, old Abe tot- 
tered to his place in the column, but we soon started 
on the keen run, and left him behind. I glanced 
back and saw him standing, looking after us ; I looked 

<— 177— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

again, and he was following us slowly, and with dif- 
ficulty. 

In an hour, just after dark, we struck the rear 
guard of Longstreet's corps train, as it was starting 
up a mountain. Three Michigan regiments dis- 
mounted, and crowded along the narrow road. Our 
regiment was next to the dismounted men, and we 
were to charge through and stampede the train as soon 
as we found an opening. 

I never saw such a display of fireworks as I saw 
all through that night. Our men toiled up the moun- 
tain, firing as fast as they could, and the Confederates 
fell back, stubbornly resisting our advance. Just at 
daybreak we reached a level spot on top of the moun- 
tain, probably fifteen acres, where there had been a 
summer hotel in the days of peace. Here we cut our 
way through the rear guard, and took after the wagon 
train. 

There were two pikes leading off the mountain, and 
the train had divided ; we took the Smithburg pike, to 
head off and capture the section going that way. The 
mules attached to the wagons were running away 
down the hill; but we had to go by them, which we 
did, yelling and firing pistols. The train we were 
after was two miles long, and I saw many wagons go 
over the bank into the gulch below. Most of the 
wagons had wounded in them, and as we tore along 
we could hear the cries of the unfortunate men. 

—178—. 



JOE ALLEN 



Some of them were looking out, and some of them 
jumped. Many of the drivers were shot by our men; 
others deserted their teams, and the scene was fright- 
ful. 

But we finally got ahead of the train, and stopped 
it. Then we went to burning the wagons and killing 
the mules. The wounded were carried to the side 
of the road, but we had no time to look after them. 
We halted there several hours during the time hearing 
that the other train and five thousand prisoners had 
been captured. 

Just before we started on again, old Abe came walk- 
ing into camp. How he discovered that his command 
had gone down the Smithburg pike, I cannot imagine, 
but there he was, and he at once took his place among 
the horses of my company. He had probably seen 
the fighting all through the night before, and followed 
us through the woods when it must have seemed to him 
that every limb on the trees was shooting fire. He 
was not far away when the charge took place on 
top of the mountain, and when he decided to follow 
the Smithburg pike, knowing by some instinct that his 
comrades had gone that way, he must have seen sights 
and heard sounds that were as terrible as any in the 
history of the war. He passed the entire train while 
the wagons were being burned, the wounded dumped 
out, and the mules killed, until he found his old 
friends of the First Vermont. 

—179— 



THE ANTHOLOGY OF ANOTHER TOWN 

His story now came to be noised about, and cavalry- 
men from other commands came up to look at him, 
all of whom offered kindly suggestions. That night 
we were at Hagerstown. I heard cheering half a 
mile away, and knew it was old Abe coming in. I 
rode over that way, and met him. He followed me to 
our camp, where I fed and watered him. He seemed 
to be getting better, but was very stiff in the neck. 

At midnight we hurried on, leaving old Abe lying 
down. There was no long halt for several days, but 
whenever we stopped to rest, and snatch a little sleep 
or a mouthful of food, old Abe would come in on 
us. Sometimes he would strike the pickets a mile 
from his regiment, but always found his way to us 
with unerring certainty. 

There was fighting almost every hour of the day, 
and half the time old Abe must have been among the 
enemy; he certainly came through their camp every 
time he found us, for we were in advance, and travel- 
ling the same road: our purpose was to burn certain 
bridges on the Potomac, and the Confederates were 
trying to prevent our doing it. But old Abe knew 
which crowd he belonged with, and managed to find 
us every night. Finding the horses of my company, 
he took his place with them, first having a tremendous 
row with his successor. 

Every day he got in a little earlier, and for awhile 
in the morning would travel by my side in the column. 

—180— 



JOE ALLEN 



always looking for an opportunity to get a kick at the 
new horse I was riding; but we were making a forced 
march, and he would soon drop out. He was known 
as "The First Vermont Straggler/ 9 and every day the 
soldiers of other commands would call to us, and ask 
how old Abe was coming on, to which we replied that 
he was coming on very well, and would surely be in 
at the surrender. 

One night we halted at 11 o'clock for six hours, 
and I worried because old Abe had not arrived. But 
when I mentioned the matter, it happened to be to a 
soldier who had been on picket duty, and he said old 
Abe came along the road within half an hour after 
he took his place, and had spent two hours with him, 
begging for crackers out of his knapsack. Old Abe 
was becoming a good deal of a vagrant, and would 
loaf with any of our command, although when I went 
out to saddle, he was usually with the horses of our 
company. 

I think he kept with us after that, usually marching 
by my side, though he would break ranks occasion- 
ally, and go after water, or nibble grass. Finally, at 
the end of the tenth day, I put my saddle on old Abe's 
back once more, and rode him until I was mustered 
out as one of Sheridan's cavalry. When I left the 
camp for good, I saw a recruit riding old Abe, and the 
recruit was being congratulated on having fallen heir 
to about the best horse in the service. 

—181— 






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